A Dogged Birth

by Don Hagelberg

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A Dogged Birth

For Barry L. Duncan & Scott D. Miller

At The Institute for the Study of Therapeutic Change

“One gives birth to a new self in recovery.”

-Father Tom Weston, S.J.

I

Margo sits, short-skirted,

Without panties, eyes dilated.

Her sexuality winks at me.

She asks me to take care

Of her pregnant dog

Barely out of puppydom

While she recovers from alcohol and drugs.

I agree to care for the dog for three weeks,

At which Margo shuts her eyes and jumps down

From the iron-worked bars of the banister.

II

A carrier of the mail

She hooked up with a con

And after getting it on,

Succumbed to her lover’s

Well sculptured sale’s speech for smack.

Her dreams of graduating University

With a Master’s Degree punctured

By the shaft which she slipped

Underneath her needle-hungry skin.

She says, “It was all him! All him!”

III

Growing up in Army Camps

Her father, a metal soldier,

Erect and inflexible,

Her older brother, the first of many

To slip and slide inside her,

She grew up incited by

Risk and alcohol, but

Now, so overwhelmed with “stuff,”

Nothing remains for her except

The unwanted role of heroine in attendance.

IV

Mittens wets the concrete squares

Of my cottage’s front porch as

Margo pushes her pregnant dog’s leash

Into my hands, taking away my peace.

Mittens keens to the steps, which

Her departing mistress’s feet make.

Margo does not look back as

She sits down on the passenger’s side of

A four-year-old Treatment Center van with logos.

Chalk-like, she must be remembering when she wore a tan.

V

I pull the half-terrier

Half-cocker spaniel mix

In my direction: leash tugging collar.

Mittens make a last jump with front feet

On the banister as the van

Escapes from the long driveway

And turns out of sight down the street.

I feed Mittens with my dog:

The mix and the Weimaraner eat and growl

From bowls which slip and slide on my kitchen floor.

VI

After eating, the two animals circle and sniff.

Through one week and a half we three huddle

And play territorial, animals games,

Until Mittens whimpers and breathes hard

And then she skulks underneath the back porch.

I see her white and black fur, through

The spaces between the boards of the porch.

I first beg and then steal a discarded box from

The hardware store in which she makes a home with a curl.

And I wonder if I should call the penciled-in Vet?

VII

At dusk Mittens begins to lick herself

And drops, air mail, a gray bag of male

Onto the folded blanket borrowed from my cot.

She prods, nibbles, and then licks

The unfolding bit of herself to expose

A slowly wiggling puppy, wet, and

In time, six more arrive by air-drop,

Each hand-dried but un-named.

Over all? Four hours of woman’s work.

They all claim the T.V. carton as a right of birth.

VIII

After Mittens eats the casts,

She lays back and I let her have milk

Both to change the taste in her mouth

And to give her strength. She knew what

She was doing. I was merely her observer.

For the rest of the week and a half,

Mittens eats for eight and spreads a table

For seven. I don’t know why it came out uneven,

But at the end of three weeks, I drive

Mittens and litter to the animal shelter.

IX

In one and a half weeks, Margo returns,

Picks up Mittens and two of the pups

From their protection, and tells me

That she is grateful for the three weeks

I took care of her animals. Margo now wears

A light-weight suit and has made-up eyes.

She cries and mascara drops on Mitten’s paws.

Margo tells me she’ll move away tomorrow:

South to be with her mother and father for

A little while. I blink in sympathy.

X

The next day comes and Margo, Mittens and pups, “One,”

And “Two,” leave the cottage next door.

I steer my car to the animal shelter and stare at dogs
Until I spy the litter of puppies which

Will be released for adoption when they can

Survive on their own. I sign the contract for

Just one black and white pup,

The mother being a mixed terrier-spaniel

While the father’s breed remains unknown. I wonder

Will Margo’s be brought up in Army camps?

-Don Hagelberg

© Copyright 2008 by Don Hagelberg

[First published in New World Finn, Spring, 2008, Page 25.]

" In loving actual individual beings one can slip into a fanciful idea about how
one thinks or could wish this being should be." -Kierkegaard