I hope I gave you half of what you gave to me.
Both pups, grass-stained tussles; bites and scratches
that lead to misunderstood anger.
No, I'm not playing anymore. It's
time to go inside. Followed by
no more than five minutes of silence between us
until we were at it again.
All teeth and arms, pushing and grappling, clawing
like pups are apt to do.
When you were sleeping in the crate for
those first few months, I'd put my hand between
the bars, searching for my buddy; only
finding gnashing teeth, a wagging tail.
Our roles were well-defined, as far as you were concerned.

It wasn't overnight, but
I stopped rolling around (as much) and
your joints stiffened, in part because of the
years passing through us, in part
because of that one time (we're pretty sure)
you fell off the deck.
We both seemed to be fine
with it, taking the time every winter,
when your allergies would subside,
to throw snowballs and wrestle until
we were both too exhausted to get up from the snow.

The rest was calm, mostly, me
feigning excited chatter to incite
a tail wag and a big smile from you, maybe even
a **** wiggle if I was lucky. You, begging
for food at 6 PM, then 5 PM, pushing 4:30
dinner like the elderly tend to do. Your coat, not shining like it used to. Your smile, a little more offset as each ancient tooth
struggled to hold on.

I have no more to say.

You helped get me here, so thank you.

Thank you.