My Dog Doesn't Drink Bourbon

She likely wonders why people are so strange?

My dog
doesn’t drink
bourbon.

But she likes 
to sit with me
in the early evening
while I do.

We like to sit
on the flat stone steps
atop our front yard,
me on a step or two 
higher than her,
she sitting up  
on her haunches,
one step below me,
alert and eyes forward.

Stella checking out the neighborhood from a favorite perch.

As soon as she hears the ice
in my tumbler,
upon my first sip,
she turns her head, 
tips it a bit, 
arches her eyebrows 
above her big dark eyes,
then sniffs toward my face.

If I were to guess,
I’d guess she’s wondering
why I'm sitting so low to the ground,
like her, 
and trying to understand
why I’m so quiet and contemplative. 

She returns her gaze forward
and lifts her hind quarters,
her well-worn signal for me
to rub her head and shoulders,
her back, and ultimately,
her achy old hips.

Then we stop
and stare together 
into the crisp December sky,
the sun melting into the horizon,
giving way to streaks and wisps
of pink, light blue, and orange,
all melding into
a faded palette
of pastel hues.

December sunset in San Mateo, CA.

I sip my bourbon
and my dog sits
quietly, turns again
and gives me another 
one of her inquisitive looks.

If I were to guess,
I’d guess she’s wondering
what the hell I’m doing,
and marveling 
at what I find 
so marvelous about
something she sees
as so natural and normal.

She likely keeps wondering
why people are so strange,
then is distracted by a crow
landing on our picket fence
or a squirrel racing up a tree 
across the street.

Once the distractions 
have loosened their
grip on her brain 
and she’s regained her senses,
she stands up, 
walks down a couple of steps
and trots across the yard 
toward the back door:  

‘He’ll feed me soon!”