Sausage dog

My wife lost her pet dog recently.
She was Ginger, a sausage dog
Cuddly, attention-seeking, lovable
And always trotting towards my wife
For some “us” time.

And she welcomed me too, with tenderness
She never barked at me, perhaps knowing,
That I would be the caretaker of my wife
And she mine. We loved that little rascal
Who at 17 years was nearing her ultimatum
In dog years. And one morning, she passed away
Never to inhale, lick, trot, bark
Or just be there when my wife needed
Some scrappy together time.

The truth is, like we build fiber-fenced homes,
For love, inside our hearts, we too build filamentous
Dwelling places, that stroke our affection,
Even after the settlers are gone.
And those hurricanes, they bludgeon in force,
Like needle-like obelisks stabbing tear ducts.
From where tears trickle.

And those herculean boughs of dogwood
Hiding beneath their inimitable barks,
They become their own legacies,
Of our companionate needs
To build little kennels where it matters,

Inside a palpitating chamber,
Where I’m sure, my wife still hears

Echoes of Ginger’s bark.


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