standard poodle.  His dog

had a seizure before



I was in the apartment two minutes:

pointed its snout to the ceiling



and froze up, stiffened, emitted

no high, penetrating whine.  Just



silence.  Later, in bed,

he explained it had been beaten 



severely as a pup.  But

that it was still a good dog.  Nice



to be able to share the intimate details

of his dog’s childhood 



afterward, our pillow talk.  He was

the first man I’ve ever been with who



faked an orgasm.  Or maybe others 

faked it better.  Not to be



a cad, I asked.  He kept his body

to the side and quietly explained that



“there wasn’t a lot.”  “What’s with

your dog,” I said,



swinging my feet off the bed

to the pile of clothes on the floor, mine



and his.  Poodle rescue.  He’d hoped

to show the dog, even had



its hair cut right, undignified

for such a serious-looking animal.



You know, once you’ve had sex

with enough men, you learn to draw



reasonably accurate conclusions; this guy

was molested young.  How



do I know that?  I laced my boots

while he told me about the time he tried



to show the dog.  It was too timid.

Wouldn’t even enter the room; all 



its training went out the window.  Partially

I know by the behavior



he coaxed me into: the scripted

entrances and exits, the cues, props 



to appear in one act, to be fitfully 

discharged in another.  His script:



neither violent nor elegant, but 

his pleasure had no part in it.  The dog 



approached again 

after I dressed, laid its black head 



on my knee and looked up 

with vulnerable eyes.  



I cupped its head briefly in my lap

and stroked its ears.



He was out of the room by then

so I spoke to the animal.  “You’re 



a good boy,” I said.  “A good boy.”