Soapbox

Stray

He heels in a way he never has before.

In his now-silent world, I don't know
if I represent security or if simply loyalty compels him,
but when he rises
from the tattered lambswool that has been his bed
for a dozen years,
he walks slowly to my side and waits there
as I do the ironing or wash the dishes,
sometimes with his face almost against
a cabinet or the laundry basket,
wedged awkwardly between leg and wall or shower door
and simply stands, silent, staring ahead at nothing,
ready.
Some days I trip over him a half-dozen times
when I turn without realizing that my dark, rheumy-eyed shadow
has left off his dozing and come to stand sentinel.
In exasperation I'll blurt,  "Get out of the way, pup!"
before I remember
that he cannot hear me,
has no concept of 'the way'.

In his youth, after we brought him in
from the cold of
scavenging ditches and dodging cars
he was afraid of everything:
gurgling water, fluttering sheet, busy broom-
he needed frequent and fervent reassurance that the world
was not about to turn on him again,
end the reprieve from fear we had given.
I used to wish he would just relax.
Today he regards the world with sphinx-like impassivity
wanders with unflappable calm from food dish to water bowl
to back door.
He sometimes tries to jump the steps on to the porch
as if he doesn't remember that his back legs
just don't work like that anymore
and seems stoically clueless of basic commandments like
thou shall sit before I put your leash on.
But when he leaves off one of his frequent deep sleeps
he wanders to stand at my side
in a perfect 'heel'
and follows me quietly as I move from place to place,
standing ready,
protecting me- or drawing security from my nearness-
I don't know.

I have grown accustomed to his presence.
But when I remember to, I leave off what I am doing
bend down to fondle white-fletched ears still silken,
whisper endearments they cannot hear
mindful that one day soon my shadow will be gone.