When the owner said, “Blue Heeler,”

I thought “Blue Healer” because

I don’t know anything about dogs, and

I imagined a service animal that sees

auras and sniffs out sadness

 

which struck me as odd, given all the

Second Amendment art forms

scattered around the house, but I thought

You just never know, do you? and

decided that the New Age and the

Confederate Flag could, perhaps in this instance, exist in the same sphere.

 

But “heal” is actually “heel,”

as in the lump of muscle at the

back end of the foot, and

Blue Heelers do just that —

nip at the backs of heels to

make something goes where it’s

 

supposed to go.

Especially sheep.

They herd them.

Keep them in their groups.

Lead the strays back to the flock.

Protect the flock from prey.

 

I feel protected writing this poem.

This Blue Heeler at my feet.

And yesterday when you died,

she never left my side and

she even put her head on

my lap when I cried. So

 

perhaps she is a Blue Healer, the

black and white of her fur

casting its cobalt glow, her eyes

taking me in,

bringing me back

making me whole.