You’re the first dog I ever
loved deeply, that I ever
clung to. Long thick fur
the color of coffee with cream,
tail curled and fanning out
behind you– your plumage–
dark chocolate mask, faded
muzzle. I don’t remember who
named you. My last memory
of you alive: I raked the half-acre
October leaves into a mound,
jumped in. You followed, pulled
my hair, my feet, my pants, stood
with one paw on each shoulder,
pinning me. You won before curling
under one arm, almost the size of my
eleven year old body. You slept.
I read my book. My last memory of you:
Halloween. You’d been gone three days,
but that wasn’t unusual. On the bus to
school, we crossed the highway. The
breeze caught your tail, lying in the
middle of the north bound lane, made
you look alive, wagging. I screamed,
face pressed against bus glass. Every
dog since, I’ve wanted to be you.