Giovanni Pascoli wrote about this in Italian
before Heaney had a chance
to translate it into English,
so my pencil could wonder about it, too,
a noticing, that is, of the farm dogs
who race barking after every passing cart
or coach, nipping at hooves in a billow of dust.
I’ve seen such dogs run after a bicycle
or a car, then stop outpaced,
stand still for a moment to make sure
the intruder has gotten the message,
given up any thought of making trouble,
before running back to its post
under a bush or in the shadow of a barn.
Is it madness, this inability to distinguish
between friend or foe, or is it wise,
if you can’t tell one from the other,
to run barking madly after everyone
simply to be on the safe side?
Whatever the case, it’s a kind of job
and you’re free to do it all year round.
And in return, this guardian of family
and farm, roosters and hens,
is rewarded with kibble and scraps
and a porch to sleep under when it rains.
And best of all, he is given a name
that is his and his alone,
enough to turn his head and bring him home.