I don’t pretend
to love my dog
any more than you
might love yours.

Still, I must keep a record—
of the way she looks,
her almond-shaped eyes
with coal eyeliner
staring deep into mine,
paws crawling up my chest
as I scratch her shoulders and ask:
“Are you happy today?
Does this make you happy?”

And I must keep a record
of the fact that she isn’t
growing up much.
I can accept ownership
of this failing—
what’s annoying to others
appears to be precious to me.
Though not always.

A man says, “She’s still a pup?”
while kneeling down to
offer her affection she isn’t sure
she wants from a stranger.
I answer, “She’s almost six,”
with a quiet deduction
over how many summers
we might have left.

I don’t let it bring me down
for too long.
There’s a forever-puppy to tend to.
And she’s taken
to gyrating, embarrassingly,
against my thigh.
I remind her:
This is not an appropriate thing.
She responds with a kiss.
She has no idea
what’s good or bad.
None of the mental messes
we humans sink into.

So I’ll keep a record
of all of it:
the joy,
the silliness,
the tucked-back ears,
the gentle face
of a dog I love
no better than you
might love yours.

_{^{(Daily Writing 063)}}