Late night
Dark was the temple on Zen Mountain,
I leaned upon the rail of the second floor hallway,
Overlooking our zendo, as from a theater loge balcony
From its left hand entrance, below me by the han
She walked in, the three legged dog,
Beloved companion of a woman on retreat this week
Without much ado or sniffing about,
The dog hopped to her stop before that first zafu of the row,
The one a yard before the Roshi’s seat,
Upon which without a bow she sat
Coincidence? Her owner joined me at the rail
“Your dog,” I gestured, “Tripod, she sits well,
Perhaps we should reserve her seat at the next sesshin,”
“She has a name you know,”
“I know, but we long ago dharma named her ‘Tripod’ for when she’s here”
Guests bringing pets to the temple was stated not allowed,
But always she was brought anyway,
Always was an exception made, for
Tripod, the Dharma dog,
Her owner relaxed,
“She’s not so young any more, seems only last year I housed trained her,
Using puppy pads, until she was old enough to go outside,”
I asked “Puppy pads?”
“They’re disposable, you teach young dogs to go on the pad, you throw them away,
They’re square, like the zabuton mats under the zafus, but white”
One for the Buddha, One for the Dharma, one for the Sangha,
We revered Tripod,
We claimed her has our temple heir to that Buddha dog of old Joshu’s
“It’s funny,” she went on, “This time of night,
At home, she usually goes outside,
But not here, when here she comes up here,
I wonder why?”
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