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| Chola — May 23, 1998 - October 29, 2012 |
(Below is "Dogwood" from the poem sequence "Days of Grass" in my book, The Frangible Hour)
Dogwood
—in memory of Chola
We have the last
appointment of the day.
That’s how it’s
done—
they don’t want
anyone
to see the dog they’ll
have to put away,
hear muffled sobs,
feel ill at ease,
fearing a
transmissible disease.
For days she
wouldn’t touch her food or water.
Nearly fifteen,
there was so much
she’d seen—
the previous
summer’s turmoil when my daughter
had nearly died,
then father had.
Night terrors when
I thought I might go mad.
But mostly good
times. As the years stacked up,
I failed to
multiply
by seven. In my
mind’s eye
she would always
be the playful pup
who barked at
birds, chased squirrels, scratched the dirt
and loved to nip
the edges of my skirt.
She lies on the
examination table
in this white
room,
a steadfast friend
with whom
I had entrusted
secrets. Are you able
to stay?
I nod. He shaves a
spot,
inserts a
catheter. Before the shot
of pentobarbital,
a sedative.
She sees me.
Knows.
And as her brown
eyes close,
I wonder if I’m
able to forgive
myself for ever
thinking she
was just a dog.
This vital part of me.
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