You were a pile of bones.
I loved you before I met you,
blindly as one should, staring at your photo through a phone.

I didn't know, but my heart knew, as I sat nervously in the car.
Scenarios of sickness,
unfolding in my brain,
spilling out like oil.
I tried to clean up, but everything was already greasy and black--
primed for you to leave me,
before you even laid down on my lap.

Then I held you.
You felt so soft,
and gentle.
But, instead of joy,
I felt dread.
You were too calm.
You didn't wiggle, or whine.
I said "It's probably fine,"
but your body was ticking like a bomb.

I feel foolish, dear pup,
ashamed of my dreams on the way home,
of you running, and playing, and growing up.

But you did not play,
and you did not eat.
You were so tired, and woeful, and weak.
I knew when I heard
your little heartbeat,
and your raspy breath,
right next to my ear as I slept.

And the next day,
on a cold metal table,
you slipped away quietly.
I hope that you know I loved you entirely.

Aside from crying,
all I can manage to do now, is to laugh.
Because, while grasping at straws I had thought
"You can't spell Olive without the word 'live.' "
What a cruel cosmic gaffe.