In Dog Language, Chase Twichell opens a kaleidoscope of images and feelings, prompted by memory and a profound love of pets, those noble companions who offer comfort in our darkest hours. But even pets grow old, as do those we love. In these selections, Twichell takes that journey, from childhood to the loss of a parent, shredding memory with perception, pain with understanding and rage with grief.

Childhood is defined in small moments, in individual memories, opportunities:

“We had a pact to live outside
the adult world forever,
and we broke it.

We lost each other. Nothing was left
of the trees but stumps of gravestones:
Huck Finn, Toby Tyler, and me.”
   (The Fork in the Moment)

“You were cruel, first love.
The beauty you made
in my eye blinded me
while your body wed me,
so all the years of my youth
I was your widow.”
   (The Last Knot)

“The truth is, she’s a child
who stopped growing.

… you want to know
how she became a gnarled branch

I was sure she had secrets,
but she had no secrets.

I had to tell her mine.”
   (Self-Portrait)

“Stay with me, dogs,
black-and-white spirits
asleep by the door,
none of us yet wandering among
the hordes that Dante saw.
Come, Nan.
Come lie beside my chair
and be my muse.”
   (The Tail)