The clippers heat up quickly
So I shave the dog one body part at a time:
one leg,
two legs,
three legs,
four legs,
one foot,
two feet,
three feet,
four feet,
back,
belly,
tail,
face.
Hot dog ready for summer relief.
It takes longer than a girl
getting ready for a hot date.
He cries when you sees you,
low whimpers of delight.
His frailness is endearing
if it doesn’t keep you up at night.
He rubs his head against you
he murmurs adoration
When you scratch behind his ears
his tail waves in celebration.
His love is pure and when he looks
so deeply in your eyes
You know these daily trysts
will last until he dies.
.
.
(and if he’s as old as my boy is, that may not be as long as one would hope).
You are deluded.
People are
laughing at you behind your back?
No. They’re not.
You Interpret casual, general remarks about the state of the universe
as personal attacks.
You are like my fear aggressive dog,
seeing people in the distance
growling from afar, shaking and snapping.
But they’re…!
No. They’re not.
You need a Gentle leader
to pull your mouth closed
bite back those lies
calm your hysteria.
You’re snapping and panting at air.
Last night,
I wept over your broken body,
watching bloody pools expanding
beneath your feet.
Today,
you needed seven anti-anxiety pills
and still paced and cried,
your heart throbbing.
Were we dreaming side by side?
Did you see my vision?
Were you scared by day
from mother dreams
of death?
.
.
.
(The dog again. Sigh. Put him in the Gentle Leader halter after dinner and he calmed down. Might try that during the day tomorrow.)
It’s time for spring cleaning,
but if I wash your nose prints
off this glass
then the last trace
of you will be erased
and you will truly be
gone.
You rest content
curled and snoozing
until bedtime.
Then the dragons come.
They wake you
harass you
scare you,
so you pace and tell us about it.
Dear dragons,
Go away.
We all need sleep!
Here’s a little pill,
a magic tablet,
to send you on your way.
.
.
OJ the dog is about to try some anti-anxiety meds to see if that will help him with his grief and anxiety for a few weeks, until he’s used to being the lone dog. I can’t believe my dog is officially suffering from mental illness. Old dog.
whimper
pant
pace
whine
pant
woof?
pant
woof
pace
pant
woof!
pant
WOOF!
pant
cry
WOOF wooooof!
pant
sigh
.
.
My 15 year old standard poodle is still unable to manage alone after we had to put down our 16.5 year old miniature poodle last month. We now allow him to sleep in our bedroom. Last night, after he’d been pacing and whimpering from 1:30 to 2 a.m. (post snack and pee-break) I actually got out of bed to lie beside him on the floor for 20 minutes until he settled. I’m not sure if that’s enabling, but we were all able to sleep afterwards. A visit to the vet this week, and a trip to his favourite kennel master next week, and I have hopes that perhaps he’ll be able to cope soon. The mourning process is a challenge for us all.
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).
This poem was sent to me by my father-in-law, following the notice about Dusty’s euthanasia today. It’s so lovely I thought I’d share it with you. The author, Christopher Tatchell Winter, was my husband’s 2X great grandfather. I will check, but I believe it would have been written around 1900. (Ignore the way WordPress mangled the spacing in the first stanza).
.
.
Dear, dear little Jack, my companion & friend
Few now are my years, soon cometh the end
And I thought to have had you until I depart
But no more will I lessen the pain of my heart
My dear little dog, so faithful & true
I never shall know another like you
Much that passes for love may be but a cheat
But your love was constant & full & complete
No more will you meet me & run half a mile
To leap in my arms & my sorrow beguile
If but for a moment it then would depart
And sunshine & gladness would enter my heart
Oh, dear little Jack, I call you in vain
But why should I sorrow, why should I complain
It can’t bring you back, I know that is true
And yet all the same I will sorrow for you
And now at my door, you rest in your grave
And over it many a flower shall wave
In winter the snow on it softly shall fall
But no more will you answer & come to my call
.
The sketch of a Winter dog, presumably Jack:
Now begins
your last twenty-four hours.
You are curled on a fuzzy blanket
that you settled onto with a groan
and a long sigh.
You’re catching up on the sleep you missed
between 2 a.m. and 7 a.m. when
you cried and howled and paced.
You struggle to rise and follow me
as I move through the house, still my shadow
even though it hurts to move.
You still wag your tail
though your hips cause you pain.
You still look up trustingly
with those cloudy white eyes,
so I will do my painful duty,
and give you sleep, free from pain.
After your final vet appointment,
tomorrow at this time.
I will bury you in the back yard
beside your brother, and we will weep
over the loss of another faithful dog
who shadowed us
with devotion.
.
Shawn L. Bird 