The Dog Who Loved With All His Heart

On the night before my Boxer died,
he lay quietly by the wood stove,
basking in its warmth, taking comfort,
I hope, from its soothing heat.
Suddenly, as if infused with strength
or some clear vision,
he raised his head,
held it perfectly erect,
and stared into my eyes
steadfastly and with dignity
for one long moment.

What was he thinking?
Did he know then,
what his tomorrow would bring?
Could he see the time was coming
when those same brown eyes
that kept my gaze that night,
that once danced in joy,
that once sparked with energy,
would become vacant chocolate pools?

It was in those eyes that death's moment became clear--
the body, still warm, the chest not rising, the spirit stilled.

For this Boxer, at least, death came without warning.
Overnight, almost, it came. Too quickly. Too profoundly.
And now we're left too sadly.

Life ends in silence, if you are a Boxer
whose body has turned on you.
Not with wracking sobs--
Not with whimpers of grief--
Not with moaning or crying--
but with big brown eyes full of pain,
Soft brown ears lying flat and lifeless
against a tired head. Short, docked tail
listless over hips stiff with arthritis.

How does cancer steal into the vibrant body
of a pleasure seeker? A smell sniffer? A sound listener?
A squirrel chaser? A bone chewer? A ride taker?
On what insidious avenue does it start its journey?

Oh puppy. I will miss those shining eyes,
those clacking nails on asphalt, your amazing love.
My heart rises in grief.
Gone now, the bouncing Boxer--
the lima-bean-welcome-home dancer--
the dog who loved with all his heart.

If I could bring you back, we'd take more walks,
and I'd talk to you more often on them.
I'd throw more sticks, let you sit in my lap
and sleep on my bed, feed you scraps
of the things you loved.

Instead, I'll take your ashes to our beloved beach--
stand with the people who filled your heart with love--
and as I close my eyes I'll hear the sound of the waves
and picture you chasing the gulls, braving frigid waters,
racing toward me, ears flapping in the sea breeze,
before I'll dip my fingers into the dust of you,
hold my hand high above my head, and let you drift
and settle with the mussels and sea glass
--one last time.

Slow Waltz in April

At twilight, on a cold spring night,
when spring itself was holding back,
unable to take charge in the face
of winter's last-minute blast,
in a kitchen where garlic and shrimp aromas
mingled with those of steamed rice and broccoli,
and a sweet chef in blue jeans and Henley shirt
did double duty as pot scrubber and dishwasher,
two lovers waltzed to classic jazz,
turned in slow circles past dishes to be done,
past left overs to be stored, past computers
that waited with papers to be written or read.

In the heat of that kitchen,
with a Spaniel and a Boxer cutting in,
that slow dance added a course
to an already sweet meal, an already
luxurious day--an hors d'oeuvre
for the winding down
into love-steeped sleep.

One more first, in a short line of firsts--
One more pleasure never felt before--
One more reason to call this love.