I spoke it to the empty room:
“I wanna velcro horsedog”—
dreams of danes in my head,
when she came instead,
chocolate-crowned and solid-boned,
her lab legs built like timber,
not an ounce of spare on her frame
but somehow still substantial,
like good furniture.
She was not always this way—
this shadow stitched to my footsteps,
these eyes liquid with devotion.
There was a time when the garden held
more wonder than my presence,
when squirrels commanded her full attention,
when the mail truck’s rumble
pulled her to the window
like moth to flame.
Tell me, what transforms
a wild heart into belonging?
What invisible thread is pulled
in secret chambers
of a dog’s knowing?
Now she tub-thumps behind me
bedroom to kitchen,
bathroom to office,
her nails clicking a morse code
against hardwood floors.
At night, she sleeps
warm against me,
until that gentle word—”okay”—
sends her padding away.
Perhaps this is how love works—
not in grand gestures
or reasons why,
but in the quiet choosing,
day after day,
to stay.
Tell me, isn’t this
how the world’s great mysteries
reveal themselves?
In chocolate fur and timber bones,
keeping seventime with our days
like a second heartbeat.
