When he woke frisky this morning,
I thought to cancel.
But bad days outnumber good.
He grows insubstantial,
as though life vaporizes through skin
that hangs like laundry on a line,
and he struggles to rise,
each stiff-legged step painful.
Fur-draped bone
leaves few places to insert a needle.
But he doesn’t whimper or struggle.
He trusts me. I feel a turncoat
as I whisper baby-talk: Sweet Silky Furs,
Precious Little Man,
Mama’s Baby Boy,
till the vet urges me to go.
I am bereft.
My head says I’ve spared him pain,
but my heart cries, Judas! Betrayer!
His collar jangles my pocket
as though he still walks with me.
2024-01-01