Katherine Spadaro: ‘As My Dog Slowed Down’

As My Dog Slowed Down

We used to walk across whole suburbs, all the way to the beach. We looked at people clinging to the edge, having picnics, performing for the sun, lashing the water in jet skis. And then home.

As my dog slowed down, we walked along a few streets. We looked at houses and roofs with lives and neighbours buzzing around them, people shedding their cars or pointing them purposefully. And then home.

As my dog slowed down, we walked along our own street and looked at the trees: paperbark, eucalyptus, bottlebrush … Don’t know what that one is, should check it out. And then home.

As my dog slowed down, we looked at the bark on the trees. Patterned with crevices like cracked clay, or dangling scraps of papyrus. The eucalyptus has dark rumpled bark at the base, then suddenly smooth marble all the way up: an elegant limb stepping from a muddy sock. And then home.

As my dog slowed down, we looked at the lichen on the bark. This one is sage-coloured splodges of paint. That one makes scalloped pewter dishes dotted over the tree. And another like powdered gold with an uneasy reminder of sulfur. Some ants are commuting down the tree, all focus, while a caterpillar loops thoughtfully up, towards some unguessed transformation. And then home.

And then home, dog, and then home.

Katherine Spadaro