In March you are diagnosed with a tumor
And a ruptured meniscus.
Since you are already ten years old,
We choose not to treat.
Your thick blonde coat
Always made you suffer in summer,
And they tell us to be prepared
For a rapid decline in spring.
We consider letting you go
Before the southern heat strikes,
But soon you have figured out
How to climb the back steps again.
Nine months later you are still
Doing fine. You are delighted
When November brings the
First freeze. You sit out
By the gate at six a.m.
And listen to the birds;
You can’t wait for your walk;
Each new smell on the block
An amazing symphony,
A gift of God or some
Other brilliant composer,
Deserving wags of thanks.
One cold morning I am
The one who is sick.
I know you want to go out
For your walk, but you see
Me still lying in bed. Your winter days
Are precious; I only have the flu.
You sigh and curl up next to the bed.
You only want to be near.
Nov. 7, 2010