trying to get in a routine of morning writing

Dreaming Skippy

My young sons named her, I referred to her

as child support number two;

the fist was Malo, a large doberman, who adopted

Skippy, grooming her puli braids, pulling ticks

and tag alongs by teeth, one large paw

across her back.

She hunted with him and grew strong and broad

in the chest following his huge strides

up the mountain. Malo met with a 20 ought 20

shot, leaving Skippy gun shy,

but no less adventuresome.

We pulled her off a fawn

and once out of a trap she'd lugged home on her back leg.

Then one fall, I had to swim across a cold river

to coax her back home, untangling fishing line caught

in her matted hair. She was the last of the puli line,

her father, Toogoodoo from Natty and Faramir's last litter

raised in the kitchen.

When she became incontinent, sleeping through walks,

no longer lusting ground and smell,

losing appetite;

I put her down, holding on tight.

She runs through my dreams, and I call her

until I wake standing in a wood alone.

12/30/13

mh