Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

If I (in still the first of life’s quick thirds)
reflect two decades back on how was death
first met and understood, then was a time
when only dogs could die—and that was grief
enough; why undermine an honest pain?
And honest pain was met in Annie. She
had the joy and look of Grandma’s hair
on stubby legs and bitch-wagged tail; and where
my preschool hoped my mind would grow was the
epitome of life she taught again
and still again. And then she died. One brief
encounter (months in taffy life) and I’m
still taught by how I missed that dog. What breath
could better teach me that in human words?

Halloween ghosts,
Have not thought of her in a long time
I was not there when she died
So the only image I have in my mind
is her walking beside me in puppy dog heaven.
feisty little white bitch
her name was puppydog. that is what the little boy called her, and the name just stuck.
she adopted that kid like one of her pups.
she made a couple of trips with me over the road
the best partner I ever had
she had long white hair and I wore all over my clothes
even had some of it in my hair.
grief?
yeah time heals, I hardly ever feel sad just grateful that I once had such a true blue friend.