Remembering Riley the wonderdog

Riley, an Airedale Terrier, was my trusted companion for sixteen years. I no longer mourn his passing that ended many years ago, but every now and then about this time of year, a whisper of melancholia will brush my cheek, reminding me of a dog who was once my best friend.

The 20th anniversary of his passing was Wednesday, July 1st.

Calling Riley
It does no good standing
& yelling. He’s deaf
as a man with long years
in the engine room of a ship listening
for the sounds metal makes
before it fails, a faint break
in rhythm, something out of tune.

He is lying in the middle
of the porch, staring south
across a garden
verdant green with promise
He can’t hear the gaggle of geese
talking to one another
streaking the sky in black and white.
Traffic is far away, only a whisper,
like blood through a vein.

Some dark scent, perhaps, tugs
his head back & forth
in an old, old way.
If he hears anything, it is likely the light
beating in his chest, already diminishing,
though neither of us admits it.

When he turns his head at my touch
his eyes fill with a small joy,
as though love is so easily given
even I might as well have a little,
as though, when he rises
& trots to his bed,
I needn’t follow after.