What you've done

Alexandra Umlas

That night, the clouds roll in,

as if on a whim, just at the moment

you decide to take the dog you rescued

outside to pee—and you’ve discovered

how the dog is scared of the rain,

the wind shattering the stillness

of the trees, how the dog won’t move,

not even an inch, but stands solidly,

his four legs statued to the porch.

So you carry the dog, who is

too big to be a lapdog, but small enough

to awkwardly hold, down to the corner

where the bushes are on which all

the other dogs have peed, the corner

where there’s a fire hydrant, the ultimate

dog-peeing place, and you set him down.

His name is Joey Ramone, because

your husband loves music and you already

had a cat named Beatles, like the band,

not the bug, and you and Joey Ramone

are there, on the corner of Vista del Sol

with the rain pelting you both,

and you say a prayer to the pee-gods

that the dog will find bravery

enough so you can sleep until the morning

without worrying, and you remember

your children when they were very young,

how much they needed at four

in the morning, and you remember

how your grandmother could never

get comfortable at night.

It’s late, an hour that makes the mind

panic about getting up, and the dog is also

panicked because of the rain, the rain,

that’s still shooting into your eyes,

and no amount of his furious shaking

can shake off the falling rain, and so

he runs all the way home, pulling you

behind him through the darkness, past

the masked raccoon hiding in the tree,

and you remember the man

who made the joke about who

was walking who, and you feel

as ridiculous as you look, but as if

that isn’t ridiculous enough,

when you get home you remember

the pee pads you picked up at Petco

because you didn’t know what to get—

and better to be safe than sorry.

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