Daniel G. Snethen

Night of the Lunar Eclipse

by Daniel G. Snethen

I tried Dan, I really did.
But my time has come.
"It has been appointed
unto all men once to die."
The same holds true for dogs too.

I hear you calling my name, Dan.
And I almost bark because
I can hear the fear and sadness
in your heart as you cry out:
"Knightly, Knightly buddy, where are you."
I want to bark and let you know
but I am weak and ready to go.

You know the doctors
only gave me 3 months
to live—even after the amputation.
But we beat the odds and shared
over nineteen more months together.

And I thank you Dan
for all the things I got to do
during that time with my two closest friends.
You and Tori made my life
a wonderful thing to have.
I really didn't miss that leg
and you were patient with me.

You took me to Yellowstone
and tumbled me off my seat
when a grizzly bear walked
in front of the vehicle.

You took me to Forks, Washington—
where I dreamed of chasing
vampires and killing werewolves.

The voyage on the Pacific,
looking for whales terrified me.
I don't have sea legs and I
definitely am a landlubber tripod.
But your sister Karen let me lay
at her feet reassuring me
as you stood at the boat's edge
on a choppy ocean
looking for Moby or some other
leviathan surfacing the cresting sea.

You took me to Silver City, Idaho,
a mountain ghost town
and ate several slices
of their various famous pies.

I visited your major professor
who invited me in on equal terms.
I listened to you two, reminiscing
about days of yore chasing lizards,
banding birds and catching kangaroo rats.

You took me north of Allen
where I got to explore
the North American Pole of Greatest Inaccessibility.
You took me to places
few dogs have ever gone before.

And now we are at your ranch.
You have fence to fix
and expect me to follow along.
Even with just three legs,
chasing you is so much fun.

But, I'm not feeling well
and your ranch is my favorite place.
And I want to stay here, Dan.
I will miss you and Tori too
but most of all I know you love me
and I love you too. I want to bark.
I want you to hold me.
I want to spend more time with you.
Please tell Tori I love her
and not to cry too much
and tell her thank you
for taking me on walks,
I will miss her oh so much.

I have found my spot.
I know you are searching.
My heart is aching.
It wants to explode.

The sky is dark, and I sense
something is eating the moon.
I see a dozen stars streaking
across the darkling sky
blazing brightly before burning out.
And I identify with those dying stars.
My once glowing light is fading too.
And I whimper softly,
and I cry knowing I’ll never again
feel your thick fingers running
gently through my hair
or be able to share your bed
on a cold wintry night.

And I love you Dan, I truly do.
I truly do, I truly do and I love you.
And I love you and I cry.
But I can no longer stay on this plane.
The cancer has returned
and I hear the stars beckoning me homeward.
So I must leave, I know it's true.
Why else, would some celestial
entity be eating the moon?

Hobs

by Daniel G. Snethen

Hobs worked for little or nothing.
Content to sleep in the haymow.

with the nesting fowl

and a rat-tailed corpulent opossum.

All he required was hard work,

a hard day’s sweat

and a heaping plate of vittles.

When he milked the milch cows,
he'd pour some in a tin-pan
at the top of the wooden stairs

leading up to the haymow
and laughed at the opossum,

he'd named Ernie, pushing its toothy snout

between two old barn cats.

Once I actually caught Hobs

handfeeding that golden-eyed scourge

muskmelon from the garden.

And I thought they were strictly carnivorous.

Another time, I swear,

I found that crazy marsupial

snuggled up sleeping right next to Hobs.
They both had yellow eyes.

Mom never invited anyone in except relatives,

but she would let Hobs in the house to eat,

just like she did the dogs and her favorite cats.

I used to marvel at his xanthic stare

through the smoke of his William Penn
and wonder why his eyes were that color.

I asked mom why Hobs had amber eyes.

She'd just smile and say, "Does he?”
For some reason Mother liked him.

He cursed like the sailor he was,

took a pull now and then.
Stashed a bottle of barleycorn

in the calving shed. Dropped

the empties in the outhouse hole.

Mother was a religious

Scandinavian woman

and sheltered me from everything.

But not from Hobs.

Hobs worked hard.

He didn't cheat, steal, or lie.

Traits she admired.

He pulled pranks on Dad

which didn't amuse my father,
but they amused my mother

to no end and she would laugh

and laugh until she nearly got sick.

Hobs helped bury my father.

Built his coffin with Old World craftsmanship.
Stayed on, living in the haymow of the old barn.
Caring for the cats and a half dozen

opossums he'd adopted over the years.

One morning Mother found him dead,

a half-chewed-up cigar in his mouth

and his favorite pet dozing by his side.

The one with the amber eyes.

When we buried Hobs,

Ernie was there and alert.

I sensed understanding

in those lemon-drop eyes.

Through her tears,

Mother softly mumbled,

"Hobgoblins have yellow eyes.”

Doc Hawk

by Daniel G. Snethen

When I first met him,

I was so amazed.

He had a goatee and mustache

and so did I.

To me he belonged

in the Australian Outback.

Instead, he trudged through

the deserts and forested

mountain ranges of Idaho

In search of lizards,

butterflies, bats, flowers,

rodents, owls and hawks.

He especially loved ferruginous hawks.

I learned many things from him.

How to identify and leg-band birds,

how to ear-tag small mammals.

and how to noose a leopard lizard.

I even learned that, hypothetically,

a legless cheetah could run 10 mph

because of the flexibility of its backbone.

I patterned my teaching after him.

His classes were my favorite.

Mammalogy, ornithology,

plant taxonomy and wildlife management.

He was there at the Malheur

Wildlife Management Area

when I stuck a dead catfish in my mouth

for $2.00 worth of Atomic FireBalls.

He was there when I submerged

myself into 35° water

and got stuck in the deep mud

of a pond near McCall, Idaho

on yet another crazy bet.

He was there for my 21^st birthday

on the 21^st of May, 1986.

He was there whenever

I needed him to be there.

And now the time nears

as the sands of time

have nearly all dropped,

and my hero, my mentor,

one of the greatest men

I have ever known,

shall pass these Earthly confines.

But there is a new

wilderness awaiting

for him to explore.

And I hope, he will

make preparations

for the two of us

to walk together

through the deserts

and forested mountain

ranges of this new paradise

as we take in a Natural History

like none we have witnessed before.

Theodora

by Daniel G. Snethen

It'd been several years

since I had her in class.

Nine babies later,

six by C-section,

she was pursuing

her Master’s degree in science

from Oglala Lakota College.

I taught her two sisters

and her brother.

Her Unci (grandmother),

was once my administrator.

whom I was elated to see

two weeks ago,

at Little Wound High School's

Graduation ceremony.

Last time I'd seen Unci Peggy

at Taopi Cikala Owayawa,

was when Gaka Russell's ashes

were transported by young AIM

warriors in a satchel upon horseback.

Leonard prayed over them—

later they were spread

in the seven directions—

from Grandmother Earth to Russell's

cosmic ancestors beyond the Milky Way.

Wanbli, an eagle, soared overhead,

as the wailing prayers

of the Wakan Wiyans

rose up over Paha Sapa through

the Turnip Hole into the darkling sky.

I remember when my student's mother

described to me, how as a little girl,

she crawled in terror, along the floor

of her trailer while bullets, ripping through

aluminum walls whizzed above her head.

The Seventies were her Armageddon.

The last thing my former student confided

in me, sounded absolutely incredulous—

nearly made me gasp. Her grandfather was

among the last of the Mohicans:

this I already knew. But her husband,

her husband—was Ira Hayes, of course he was.

The Half-Man

by Daniel G. Snethen

I turned down the alley

between the local dispo

and Ace Hardware Store

just off the main drag of Ridge.

Stopped to watch an artist,

a half-man, painting a mural,

freehand on the back side

of the weed dispensary.

He asked if I liked it.

Naturally, I did—and said so.

He mentioned a few other

murals he’d created about

the Pine Ridge Reservation,

and said he painted on canvass too.

Even gave me his business card.

A couple of Lakota ladies with him

said they were homeless.

Not certain if he was,

but I think they were all related.

Each lady asked me for a dollar

or some loose change;

I said I couldn’t help them,

but that I might call the artist later

about possibly purchasing a painting.

I drove off to complete an errand.

On my way back, stopped

at Taco John’s for takeout.

Bought an extra six-pack & a-pound—

along with three large Dr. Peppers.

Delivered them to the half-man

and his female companions.

They were grateful, thanked me—

said wopila-tanka and God-bless.

As I drove away it finally

dawned on me, that the artist

had no legs, and his hands

were covered in the same brilliant paints

as his mural. They looked like

a fistful of yellow and red

lightning bolts over a hand-painted,

hand-canvass of royal blue.