I am convinced that one cannot appreciate
a certain level of unadulterated joy
without also experiencing
an equal and opposite level of unequivocal misery.
Take Tara, for example, our childhood black Labrador.
It should be noted she was well known
for hating Catholics and getting into things.
Regarding the former, any chance she got
she would run away from home
to invade the local parochial school
and pop the children’s playground balls.
As for the latter, the "getting into things”,
we’ll visit that in a minute.
Tara became very sick. At death's door sick.
The kind of sick where it seemed the gods had
finally passed their judgment
on Tara’s lifetime of religious intolerance.
It was the peak of summer,
so in an attempt to make her feel better,
we dragged her to her favorite place: the beach.
An afternoon in the sun and sand came and went,
Tara on her side, panting in the heat.
My friend Dan and I were playing catch with a football
until one of Dan’s throws went
over my head and into the woods.
Just as the ball disappeared from sight,
a near-dead Tara sprang from the foliage.
Prancing, jumping - I mean,
the dog was straight up frolicking.
She looked like she wanted to run
in every direction at once.
I plunged back into the brush
to find the lost football,
until I stepped into a small clearing.
And wouldn’t you know it:
In a magnificent mound of fresh Tara turd
was a fully intact, white, plastic dinner spoon.
I will never know happiness
like Tara did that fateful day.
Sure, the gods had passed their judgment -
but Tara passed the fuck outta that spoon.
Bursting With Joy
Ian Valor