Four scrawly lines

a fat, black oval

and a yellow triangle–reminds me of 

cheese

those are the legs

this is the body

and that the head

plus two red 

dots, those are the eyes.

With a single black dot

as its mouth it looks 

constantly surprised

but what it does not look like

is a dog. 

After a few years the dog

is everywhere;

it is as if 

during my absence from this town

a mighty fever had gone around; 

this mountain-gated community,  

collectively infected with that strange

little, prankish frown. They 

have printed it on see-through plates,

screwed those neatly on to walls and

gates and now the dog is looking down

at us, peeking mischievously

around all corners, watching school entrances 

and doors.

– I know the source.

I sit before him and he serves me 

chicken, 

oven-roasted, with a crisp curry crust,

and cold cucumber soup in pastel mint; perfect

for this sweltering summer day. His cheeks

two blazing circles of ember and the ashen bushy beard–

new to me; just like the dog. 

The dog was a gift

to the town, he says,

it is there to spread

joy in everyday

life.

On the floor a neat pile of sheets, first stacked and

then bound carefully together by a black 

cotton ribbon; a year’s 

worth of dogs and I see

he painted this doghundreds and

hundreds of times. 

He unties the knot.

This is the dog

when it’s sad.

This is the dog at night

lighting fireworks

and this when it is so 

happy it pees a little.

Why did you paint

the dog so many times

that year? I ask.

He shakes his head quietly

in thought. I think I see the lightskyblue

of his eyes become 

transparent.

It’s just something

I had to do.

— For S.