She doesn’t get a birthday party.
No one’s sure of the year, much less the day.
What she gets are regular meals,
treats, heart worm meds,
belly rubs, and an occasional bath.

A year and a half in, she’s still nervous
at dinner time, sits at my feet as I measure kibble,
break an egg, spoon out canned meat.

Nike’s been here long enough not to worry.
She’s never missed a meal. Big sister knows
there are two bowls of food, enough
for them both. Maybe someday,
Sally will quit worrying, too.

She seems to know we won’t hurt her,
even when we drag her to the vet.
She doesn’t like shots, but they’re over fast,
not like the pain of a bullet wound, two of them,
courtesy her former owner,

wounds that have healed on the outside,
but still cause her to limp.
Sally’s past stays with her, but her present
is pleasant. She can go out and come back in,
even when she’s been in the creek.

She has her own bed. She belongs.
We love her.
She loves us back.