Shawn L. Bird

You and I are independent souls.

I move through the house;

You rest comfortably in contented sovereignty.

You do not need to dog my heels

to glorify each moment at my side

or expect me to worship at your feet.

You ignore me for hours,

sleeping in peaceful, self-sufficiency.

We are independent souls,

until the moment I step outside the door,

and calamity explodes in barks and whines.

It pants, scratches, and pees displeasure

at this, your desperate circumstance,

wailing at the injustice of loneliness,

vomiting up fathomless grief.

For the hours I am present, I do not exist;

for the hour I am absent, I make your world

a cavernous void.

Dog ironies

amid anxieties.

,

,

OJ is not doing well since Dusty went to the Rainbow Bridge.   We’ve tried swaddling as per Thundershirt.  We’ve got the Rescue Remedy.  He’s in his safe, contained space.  We fill the Kong with goodness.  Still the dog thinks the world is ending when I walk out the door.  Got any other suggestions?  Except a new dog companion.  Hubby imagines a dog-free household in our near future.  (I’m allergic to cats, so that’s not an option either).