My five-pound puppy is fast asleep on my scratched-up hardwood floors. He’s on his side, his four stubby legs pointing straight away from his gently snoring body. I pick him up and his eyes briefly open, glassy and unresponsive like the whole fish my grandfather always ordered at Le Jardin du Pékin. I press him to my chest and he’s asleep, again or still, and I can hear him now, making noises that I’ve decided are contentment but could be anything or nothing. He smells overripe, a kiwi left too long in the fruit bowl, and there’s poultry-flavoured toothpaste stuck to the fur above his eye. That fur is soft, so soft, softer than any dog I’ve ever touched. I don’t know why he’s here, why we wanted him, why we have him if we don’t need him to hunt or to guide or to pull a sled. I don’t know what I feel for him, toward him, about him, but I know it isn’t love. I know I like the sounds he makes, the purrs and sighs and burbles. I know I like his warmth against my chest.
little black dog
is there a purpose to be served
by serving no purpose
“Puppy Sounds” does not appear in My Great-Grandfather Danced Ballet (Brick Books, 2026).
Misha Solomon is a homosexual poet in and of Tiohtià:ke/Montréal. His work has appeared in journals across Canada and has been anthologized in Best Canadian Poetry 2024, 2026, and 2027 (Biblioasis) and in On Occasion: Poems for the People (Coach House). He is a student in Concordia University’s Interdisciplinary Humanities PhD program. He is the author of three chapbooks, and his full-length debut, My Great-Grandfather Danced Ballet, was released by Brick Books in March 2026.
