Tufting the Corgi
Do I need a sweater? The evening
air has cooled thinner, the time on
the clock doesn’t match the light
outside. An orange dog jumps up,
not quite small enough for a lap,
fidgeting a spot close but looking
away, air-licking anxiety. Is he seven
now? A few soft barks, his toenails
sharp as he circles. Settling, his
eyes close to fingers combing
his back. It takes a moment to
remember my own age, to find
my spot on the downhill side of
this year. Dates have little meaning.
My calendar is a history of dogs,
their lives give order to the years.
A tiny growl as he jumps down
anxious to move, leaving tufts of
hair on my jeans. Shedding another
summer, marking a season in time.
…
And the seasons move so fast! In our lives AND our animals.
Seems that way to me, too. Thanks, Maggie.
Shedding with you…
Lovely!
Thanks, always better with some dog hair.
Lovely poem. And we do mark our lives with loves, not time.
Thank you.
I can’t remember if the Vert Fourchette is open on Mondays. I will try to make a reservation for noon and let ya know.
D
Sent from my iPhone
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Googled it. I’m in?
I love this. Thank you.
Thanks, Celeste.
My calendar is measured in dogs too. Smoky too is shedding and I’ve finally found a brush he likes, after 14 and 3/4 years, which helps. He used to scoot away when the brush came out. Weird old beast. I like my life measured by dogs.
Me, too. Bless his old heart, he found a brush!