A Good Dog
Wesley Lydon

Tail-wagging and leash-pulling as
we lead her into her new home, let loose
she runs from the front door, runs fast
not about the house, wild, but out
into the back. Excitement paused for manners,
she uses the little dog's room that first sweet day, because
She is a Good Dog.

Tail-wagging, window-fogging as
we bring Santa's snow for wishing children,
she's in my lap inside the truck,
eager to breath the frozen air.
But the window is up, repelling the cold,
so she just follows passing lights that cut the pitch, because
She is a Good Dog.

Tail-wagging and gums-bleeding as
we survey: the crumpled garage door seams,
bent from climbing paws, anxious teeth;
the house door, licked soft and dug through;
the door knob, dimpled from teeth that turned, opened.
Even bloody, stump-toothed, she's smiling-glad we're home, because
She is a Good Dog.

Tail-wagging and mouth-agape as
she tries and fails to catch a soft- tossed treat,
always trying, always missing.
Sniffing out the lost treat, crunching,
lapping up the pieces with her great pink tongue.
I clap the thick bassy drum of her sturdy ribs because
She is a Good Dog

Tail-wagging and fur-kneaded as
the baby, clambering, pulls ears, rolls down
her haunch. Grayed white tuffs are loosed, thrown.
Baby stumbles over her brown-
freckled face, poking at her patient, kind eyes;
she groans, rolls to expose her belly for scratching, because
She is a Good Dog.

I clap her hollow ribs,
Feel the bones, the spine. Her slow steps
are less steady. We coax
her to eat, and she does,
mostly. She hears less or is more in-
different. But she still comes when I call because
She is a Good Dog.

She sees waiting dogs and
leash-pulls, strong again one moment.
But her tail remains limp.
Lying, calm, the cruel-kind
pink syringe drains and she breaths deep, rests
her head, heavy, on my lap. I knead her because
She was my Good Dog.