Sport 19: Lightworks
Allen Curnow — The Kindest Thing
Allen Curnow
The Kindest Thing
Rear—vision glass
knows what comes up
out of whatever
concealed exit
I've left behind
me. These cross-country
highways hide little
for long, and least
when driving east
one of those bright
spring mornings. Green
acclivities drop
back. Sheep with them.
What comes up next
comes fast, the ute
probes left, probes right
(how can hurrying
mirrors keep up?),
overtakes me
with a long blast
storms past into full
view carrying
at gathering speed
what was concealed,
only heard, the dog
half-hanged, roped
by the neck, raving,
clawing at the tailboard
forefeet can't climb
back over, hind-
legs cruelly danced
off the tar-seal.
Bare road between us
lengthens. Away
out of sight, how long
will it have held,
that rope, till it parts?
And the ute's gone,
the dog's flung down
and I brake, short
of the strangely small
body, the one
coin-size blood spot
at the jaws. Convulsed,
gets to its feet.
Convulsed, falls over.
And I'm joined here
at the roadside by
the Maori boy who
saw it all, from
that house, the first
before Kawakawa.
Where there's a vet
Pick the dog up.
Put the dog down.
These hurts can't heal.
At the vet's yes,
green with a white
logo on the cab.
And he, not council
car? Got the number?
And I, that speed!
You're joking Drunk—
stoned, more likely,
on the hemp, cash
crop around here.
And he, Ranger's job,
picking up strays.
We put them down.
Kindest thing, most times.