Argos

by Imogen Wade

“But Argos passed into the darkness of death,

now that he had fulfilled his destiny of faith.”

– Homer, The Odyssey, Book 17

I’m dreaming of getting a Doberman again.

My landlord would say no, even though I haven’t asked

and never will. So I don’t know. But I dream of Argos

clawing at my door. Dream of him tearing my silk dresses.

Dream of his black eyes by the side of my bed,

begging me for the hills.

I first started dreaming of Argos when we scattered ashes

over gorse on Harting Down. Wind came and fine dust

rose like smoke from the bush, à la Exodus.

Once upon a time, a man with a heart and a liver

and a shiny black hat used to sit on the hill – he watched

over the village, could see the church steeple

and our roof. Man became ash. Then my love became

grief became a Doberman, a dog called Argos

filled with faith. He needs over two hours of exercise daily

and his stamina is the stuff of myth. He has good recall,

so his name is a leash. I tell my mother to count

her blessings, I could have worse coping mechanisms

than taking my fictional Doberman for a walk.

Argos is an island in my aloneness, made of loyalty

and a glossy black coat. The sunlight loves him.

Sometimes I can’t get rid of the sight of the yellow petals

turning grey as we tipped his remains –

the way we hid their colour, and sometimes I cry.

Argos licks my face. I feed him a treat. I lie on my back

in the grass; I hear him panting beside me.

Argos who is grief who is love can seem indefatigable,

which is why his breed is known for full body slams

and growls that could make an army plead defeat.

I run him ragged, let him work out the power in his heavy

muscles. Then he sits on my lap in the evening

like he doesn’t know his own weight.