Pampered. That’s what it conjures.
Resting on the lap of an elite-
Nibbling on goose pâté-
even the accents are somehow absurd
Robed in holiday pooch wear
After having been bathed in
an oatmeal and lavender bath.
But not our dog. Hound that he is,
he bays at the skunk who has
waddled through the fence,
scent and scat trailing.
Our dog, now riddled with aged bones,
gray from brow to the tip of his tail-wagging.
bones, shaking from the cold of old age
with his litter mate, more sprite still dancing
beside him unaware of his teetering steps.
He bickers with her over meal scraps, and steps
unaware, through their excrement.
Then sleeps, for hours, in their doghouse
no longer afraid of the noises the rain makes.
And oh, how we love him.
He is a mess. He is the country we live in.
He has camped with us, and cuddled.
His youth fulfilled our young dreams.
But now, it is time to rest.
Too old to save–
but never too old to cherish.
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