Bilbo and Me

 

Bilbo and Me

I rent a garage for a wood shop,
and immediately loping up the driveway
Bilbo adopts me.

The big guy sleeps on a furniture blanket,
springs to his feet if a stranger approaches,
glowers until handshake, then sniffs
those same fingers to store in his file.

Bilbo knows the message of every muffler,
the flavor of every garbage can,
shows me special secret smells
on many a walk as we wait for glue to set,
for oil to dry, for clients to buy.

Once each day
Bilbo trots to a pink stucco house
where a woman in a wheelchair
sits on the porch. He returns
with snout stinking of liver and grease.

I tweeze ticks, dust fleas,
brush his neglected lion’s mane.
Could I keep him? I try to approach
the pink house but Bilbo blocks me
with his body, bares his teeth and mutters
about ownership, about loyalty,
about playing the hand you’re dealt.

I find a larger garage, better neighborhood.
Bilbo is skeptical, watching from his blanket
which I haven’t the heart to pack
as I load the old pickup,
until I heft the final box.
Bilbo in solemn dignity arises on hind legs,
sets giant paws against my chest and—
first time ever—licks my face. I stagger
against his weight, nearly fall backward.
His eyes are closed. Tongue, almost dry.
The tickle, the wisdom, those whiskers.
He’s bidding farewell.

In the mirror I see Bilbo standing mid-street,
watching without pursuit. Another block,
and I must stop to clear my eyes. Bilbo
with his gravitas, his big bushy tail
trots toward the front porch,
the pink stucco house.

……

First published in I-70 Review.
Photo by me is of my neighbor Kona. The real Bilbo bid farewell to me in 1973.

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