Wilhelm Busch:

Vier kleine Hündchen liegen hier
Nackt, blind und unbewußt.
Sie saugen emsig alle vier
An einer toten Brust.

Wilhelm Busch:

Four tiny pubs are lying there
and busy suck the rest
(still bare, still blind, still unaware)
from a congealing breast.

---

"The Stray" is an inadequate translation of the title, you say? You know, you might well be right. So let's go slow, let's first consider the translator's plight.

But you know some German already? Well, good for you! Willkommen in der gemütlichen Ecke! Still you think its title should have read at least "The Stray Dog"?

Well, yes. Please consider some of the options I considered:

The stray dog
The strange dog
The dog who didn't belong
The dog who shouldn't be here
The Alien Dog
The Foreign Dog
The Foreign Bitch
That Foreign Bitch

and on and on it goes. Almost a narrative, isn't it? But I'll spare you the rest...

Confused? All of these are more or less dictionary-correct, or at least semantically defensible. But the feelings they induced in you varied over quite a wide range, you say? Did they make you uncomfortable? Oh, I am sorry! So which title is it going to be?

For a "correct" translation - as if there ever were such a thing! - we would have to know what Busch wanted to convey with this poem. Preciser, how far he wanted to go with his message. Not to mention how the translation resonates with the reader. That's all-important today. Because, face it, that poem seems to be written just for today...

All we know for sure is that (in German) the poem tugs at the heartstrings, and it does so in the most simple and straightforward way. Formally impeccable, you might say, although that's not the issue here.

I have always advised you on this site to "enjoy" the poems. Because I myself do. Immensely. But this poem I dreaded. And I had to push myself to translate it. For whatever reason - and there are probably several - it made me feel very sad.

But no, that's not what I meant by "translator's plight". And I did not mean either that this poem, so compact and so full of ideas, is so difficult to translate. Although that, of course, is how poems are. And that's the God-given truth, if there ever was one.

But then, many things in this world are true. Truth is no excuse for a poor job. Sorry! And, yes, I know. I'll be in your doghouse from now on. Which, come to think of it, is a far better place for delivery than the poor bitch ever had ...