In quiet rooms, your barks fade,
A shadow left where memories wade.
A battle fought with weary grace,
Now emptiness fills your gentle space.
Time moves on, yet still I grieve,
For every moment I can't retrieve.
Though cancer stole what I held dear
I love you still

The snow is thawing on the field
its white perfection turning brown
as mud and sleet become congealed.
The snow is thawing on the field
and ochre footsteps are revealed
from Milley’s paw pads pressing down.
The snow is thawing on the field
its white perfection turning brown

A dog of curly black, puffs of white from it's lips
Followed in a tether, two folks of kin washed in a dew lit sun

On the road outside
Of the fence
The Border Collie hears
The call of the
Doggies
On the inside

Enclosed behind
The wooden fence
The Alaskan malamute
The Drever, the Poodle
Bustle the edge of the barrier
Bark, bark, bark
A cacophony

Let us out
Let us come with you
Pledging to obey,
The Collie
On hind legs
Of a towering stature
Lifts a paw
Finds the latch
The gate creaks open
Uncorking in celebration

They run in gleeful circles
Hounds to escape artists
Unbound and free from tyranny
Of a heartless master
Marking their new territory
Of tree trunks
Sidewalks and fields

Have you ever seen
Such jubilation
Mirth and gaiety
Wagging their tails
Like helicopter blades
With gail force glee

They take off
Like upside down rain
Up, up, up
Every which way
Friends forever
Boundless canines
In search of the next
immured pooch who waits
For the musketeers

Miley and I walk down the street
      ignoring the cannabis scented clouds:
      she stops – sniffing every urinated message,
      occasionally leaving a reply.

My dog passes the laughing gas canisters,
    polystyrene boxes and broken glass
    searching for discarded bones, bread and tissue paper
      to eat, rip or claw.

We stroll through the park
      once yellow smiling daffodils grin brown and withered.
Squirrels multiply – fecund rats in the trees,
      Miley too slow to control the rodent population.

Despite urban desolation
      look harder:
        see the green canopy
            grass, birds,
              sometimes even a butterfly.

The world isn’t dead –
      we still have time.

My heart yearns for her to live the longest of days,
I pine to have her a year longer.
My sweet Missy,
The one I have guided through youth and the one I will guide through her final most fragile days.

I can see the light in her eyes grow dim with dull torpor.
I can feel the sluggish sense of enervation in her spirit,
yet at every chance I get,
I plead to god for another hour,
Another day,
Another month,
Another year.

I know that the final countdown is set.
The air is filled with the slightest tinge of melancholy.
And with every weary glance,
Our eyes meet one another.
And with every placid breath
Words that only a dog and its owner can understand are spoken.

Yet as the days grow dull and the air runs thin,
New life is approaching.
As the spring flowers bloom.
And if she is to depart soon,
Hopefully, she may be reborn into a new life.
And her soul and breath will take in renewed unsullied life energy.

And maybe we will meet again.

They say that with death comes life,
And I've come to accept that we may not have much time together on this earth.
But maybe,
just maybe,

we will meet again.