Empty

The death of his dog
Diminishes any man.

Mickey died hard.
I foolishly thought
He would recover.
He always had.
But time ran out.

Mickey slept fitfully
His last hours
Legs kicking
As though
In his dreams
He was young again
Loping easily across wide fields.

I gave him pain meds
And that helped
But at six in the evening
Mickey died.

I wrapped the Sheltie
In a blanket
Carried him into the yard
And placed him
At the foot
Of a blueberry bush.

For thirteen years
Mickey was a joyful companion
With a spirited connection
To tossed balls
Frisbees
And water streaming from a garden hose.
With all of nature.

Dogs are amazing creatures.
I would rather have a good dog
Than nearly any other concession
God might offer.

The place Mickey slept
Suddenly feels much smaller
And infinitely more empty.