Til death do us part...

There's something remarkable about
the way they love you
Dogs,
that is,
or any animal, I suppose, but
this morning,
with white flowers blooming and
blue china plates painted across
the sky
it is a dog's love on my mind.

This dog's love.

He rests right now,
as a matter of fact,
on the little rug just outside
the office door and
sighs, licking his lips
ever so slightly, adjusting
his black fur and back legs
with a kick and a turn.

He wants a walk.
I know this as I do every
morning
because his impatience clicks
on hard wooden floors
from the water dish
to the hallway rug
wearing a path in the
steadfastness of his love.

Even his lapping of water,
a quiet slurp that wakes me in the
blackest of nights
is a comfort,
a thirst more powerful
than dream.

He knows, as he drinks, I'll rise up within
the hour
and smell the burst of morning air
as I swing open the back door,
watch him pad down the walk,
circle three times in the yard
then lift his head along with his leg
in relief.

He knows.

But now he knows to wait.
He knows when my desk chair
groans under the weight of my rising
he must rise, too.

That is his promise.
That is his vow.

But when he's quiet,
like now,
when he's finally surrendered to
the idea that perhaps he will
not walk today
or at least not right now today
I still know he is
there, always there
waiting,
wagging behind closed eyelids
his muzzle slightly flared
with each puff out
followed by each breath in.

It is all so simple
Can you see it?
To paint such a picture of
a dog is
to paint something remarkable

Even now as he shuffles his sleepy self
into the office and lays his heavy head against
my thigh
he attempts, one more time,
to remind me of my promise, my vow
Food.
Water.
Tenderness.
Rubs behind the ears
and one above the tail,
And a walk
or two
daily.

Til death do us part.