A Thing to Be Chased

The old dog is lumpy and large. She walks with a hop, right foot close to the belly, each step aching hips. Stairs are a struggle now; the leap into his truck, unthinkable. Instead there is a thread worn mat by a door, peace in the dust particles that rise and fall in lessening springtime light.

But in her dreams,

a hare.

A thing to be chased, a road that is long.

A tired dog is made new in tall grass at high noon, in breezes that whisper,

Come on girl, come on.

Someday she will follow that stretching path but today there is joy enough in sleep. And tonight: a child’s bed to share, small terrors to keep at bay through baby’s slumber. There is work, even now.

She has so much left to give.

Rest is life enough for the old dog, today.