Today I buried my little dog.
A neighbor’s pit bull ripped her trachea.
I buried her between the garden and the trees.
I wrapped the small Terrier body
in her yellow blanket and dropped her in a ditch.
I’ll find a headstone to etch her name on.
But soon I won’t be living here.
My wife will die and I will die.
Our little dog passed us in time.
She didn’t have a tail so I won’t remember
her wagging it. She didn’t have much hair,
not enough for the wind to catch in.
She used to sleep with us,
and she’d grouch and snarl
let another cat or dog dare join us.
When we got a new puppy,
she played with him unceasingly
but put him in his place.
She was a good loyal dog.
She won’t greet me boisterously any more
or curl up on my lap to snooze.
Time gave her to us to know.
I buried her past the garden
and marked her grave with stones.