My heart still ached from losing Gus,
from losing August, but my need for
a dog, a companion, was too great.
Your ears were plastered back, even
through the glass. Not a Poodle.
Not a Havanese. Brown eyes cast
down. Tail tucked. I held your paw
to guess how large you’d grow. It didn’t
matter. I took you home that hour. You
sat perfectly still in the car, refused
to walk up the open air stairs to
my apartment. I carried you. I laid
on my brown leather couch, and you
laid on my belly, nose to nose,
stretched the length of my body.
I called out of work. Your floppy ears
relaxed, no longer held back. Your
brown and black tail curled next to you,
no longer tucked. Brown eyes explored
the room from the perch on my chest.
Our breath synced. We slept unmoving. Home.