Thousands of items fit between her toes:
the stem of a marigold (she ignored it),
small chunks of pastrami (didn't stay long),
tufts from a frayed cotton swab (a "What now?" look).
When the other half of the bed came free every morning,
she filled it within seconds, her back against my chest.
I took her paw, wedged my little finger
into the tiny canyon between her toenails.
She soon rewarded me with a full-lung sigh
that gave way to a rough carol of snores to smiles.
Her name had been a truce between "Sugar" and "Scoundrel" –
month of birth the quickest way out of another boxing match.
But the decision now smarts once a year:
months never fall off their carousel –
the terrier with toe space for my heart
only got fourteen rides.
No comments:
Post a Comment