Denise, 2004
We wanted a small dog, a Benji, a pup
not a hulking Heinz 57 like you.
Sad, nearsighted Doberman mix,
sitting in the corner
like a chastised child.
“She shakes hands.”
The woman said.
And you did, raising a black and tan paw.
And we fell madly in love
with your lop-eared face
and decidedly goofy demeanor.
You moved right in and ate a shoe,
A watch and several books;
Dozens of Christmas cookies, a loaf of beef,
All disappeared from the table.
The day you leaped into the air
And swallowed a threatening bee,
The kids proclaimed you a hero
And gave you their lunch desserts.
Claustrophobic and nervous, you leaped through windows
And hurled your sad self against heavy closed doors
And sulked for weeks about being left in the kennel.
Sad, silly, loyal, fur-faced friend.
We miss you.