I've never met Ian Watson, but he is a friend nonetheless. We became acquainted when I became editor of the Bulletin of the Science-Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. As European editor, Ian helped give the magazine a much broader scope. He is also, of course, an immensely talented writer, the author of novels such as The Embedding and Hard Questions.

Shortly after I moved to Georgetown to begin work at the Washington Post, I wrote to Ian and described an encounter with one of my new neighbors. The result was this moving poem, which later became part of his story "Three-Legged Dog," published in the May 1999 issue of Interzone.

— mjm

© copyright 2001
Mark J. McGarry

Three-legged pooch runs down the street
Gripping its leash in its mouth.
Each morning I pass it, and it passes me,
Never pausing (how could it?) to cock
Its hind leg against any tree.

Why does its owner allow it
Out for a run on its own?
Perhaps it is its own owner, alone
In the world yet brainy enough
To pretend it isn't a stray?

Is the leash an aid to balance,
A sort of steering wheel,
A way of correcting bias:
Slack, go west — tug and head south,
Technology of the mouth?

I'd love to ask it these questions.
Maybe that beagle can talk
Or — let's be serious — convey
A reply by way of a bark?
If only its lips weren't sealed.

So does it bite on the leash
Whenever it's running around
To keep its secret securely safe
— Suppose we catch it unawares —
From the likes of me and thee?

Is the dog slightly dotty?
(Not spotty — it's fawn
And brown and cream.)
Maybe its owner died,
And she always came along here.

So this is a ritual remembrance,
A pretence that she's still around.
At home each day, the dog howls
Exactly at twenty-past-eight
Till, leashed, he has his way.

What hurts do we ourselves suffer,
Lost legs of the heart or the soul?
Invisible bits of us missing —
But we carry our leashes around,
Unseen. They stop us from falling over

— Like a running three-legged hound.

(for Mark)

© copyright 2001 Ian Watson