We speak, sometimes,
of how quiet it will be
without your clacking nails on the hardwood,
without your warning yowls.
An imagined silence echoes in our present,
where you curl between us on the couch,
on which you have vomited
twice.
Too soon,
cataracts will mist your eyes,
which a stranger at the dog park once described as
“soulful.”
You will lose all interest in tossed tennis balls.
Arthritis will curb our sunlit walks until, finally,
we will take our last together.
Of course, you do not consider such morbid certainties..
You chomp your kibble open-mouthed; you shed your wiry hairs
all over my pants; you lay your tiny head on the pillow, next to mine,
rolling belly-side up and grinning, hoping for love.
When I finish this poem, I will read it to you,
and you
will plant your feet on the page
until I scratch your crooked ears and let you lick my face.