Our dog, George, is usually clean and well-behaved. But sometimes, especially at our rural home, he is overcome with wildness: running laps in a muddy ditch, chasing coyotes into the night field to "play," and yes, rolling in poop. Sometimes we call him Poop-Neck or Pig-Dog, though lovingly. If you have a dog, you understand.
Here's a wonderful poem about a dog:
Bill Fowler’s Pointer Hears a Voice
by Daniel Anderson
originally published in The Cincinnati Review
It says he craves the taste of squirrel,
Of rabbit and black snake, even wasp.
It tells him that the scum-choked pond
Is a delicious drink. The air
And earth, it says, are languages,
And you must ponder what they mean.
Wild peppermint, the sassafras,
Larkspur, trillium, the squandered salt,
The hidden urinary script
On leaves, on wrappers, bark, and weeds.
It tells him that he is a god
Whose rolling golden agate eyes
Reveal an inward fire. I’ve seen
Him when the voice has stopped him flat
In his exquisite stride and said,
Forget the squirrel, the luscious wasp.
Inhale this ripe bouquet instead:
The unapologetic, pure
Cologne of carrion. Or this:
The dark, sweet essences of shit.
Breathe deep, it says. Think twice, then drive
Your bony shoulder into it.