Bilbo and Me

 

Bilbo and Me

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

With lion’s mane collar and giant paws
Bilbo sleeps on a folded furniture blanket.
If a stranger approaches, Bilbo springs to his feet
with watchful glare 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 secret special 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 mane.
I try to approach the pink stucco house
but always Bilbo blocks me with his body, bares
teeth and mutters about ownership, about loyalty,
about playing the hand you’re dealt.

I find a larger garage, better neighborhood.
Bilbo is skeptical but watches 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 his dignity rises on hind legs with 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.

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 said farewell to me in 1973.