A small thunder wakes me from a light sleep and my first thought is—

The dogs are barking.

A small creaking in the floor interrupts me and I think—

The dogs are on their way.

 

It is not long before I sit up and hear the rain.

My dogs aren’t barking. My dogs aren’t here.

I think about their last days, lying uncomfortably on a couch,

blinking “I love you and I’m sorry” at me.

One day, my neighbor stood outside the window with a lawn mower.

My dogs stood up, paws on the windowsill,

 

tails wagging, alerting the world of their momentary wellness.

Look at me, look at us! I imagine they were saying. I cried quietly knowing the truth that being a dog protected them from.

It was hard to write an elegy from that couch.

I sat between them and they were dying.

I thought maybe that was elegy enough.

 

I wish my grass grew so fast that it had to be cut daily,

then maybe my dogs would still be there barking.

As it begins to rain, I close that window, turn off the light

and say I love you. The thunder responds with a bark.