Don't Do That

Don’t Do That


It was bring-your-own
if you wanted anything hard,
so I brought Johnnie Walker Red
along with some resentment I’d held in
for a few weeks, which was not helped
by the sight of little nameless things
pierced with toothpicks on the tables,
or by talk that promised to be nothing
if not small. But I’d consented to come,
and I knew what part of the house
their animals would be sequestered,
whose company I loved.
What else can I say,
except that old retainer
of slights and wrongs,
that bad boy I hadn’t quite outgrown—
I’d brought him along, too. I was out
to cultivate a mood. My hosts greeted me,
but did not ask about my soul,
which was when
I was invited by Johnnie Walker Red
to find the right kind of glass, and pour.
I toasted the air.
I said hello to the wall,
then walked past a group of women
dressed to be seen, undressing them
one by one, and went up the stairs
to where the Rottweilers were,
Rosie and Tom,
and got down with them on all fours.
They licked the face I offered them,
and I proceeded to slick back my hair
with their saliva, and before long
I felt like a wild thing,
ready to mess up
the party, scarf the hors d’oeuvres.
But the dogs said, No, don’t do that,
calm down, after a while
they open the door and let you out,
they pet your head, and everything
you might have held against them is gone,
and you’re good friends again.
Stay, they said.


Stephen Dunn

Posted over on The New Yorker