Good Boys

- Poetry - 

My dogs are dead –
   the elder lived his life and died
   peacefully
      at the vet.
   The younger –
      my companion –
      seizured in my arms,
      eyes rolling up to look at me
      (one last time)
      (a plea I couldn’t appease)
      as the sedative drugs
         (and my limited human capacity)
            betrayed him;
      after six months of killer
         kidney
         failure;
            he was nine –
            cut short…
            …no pun intended.
 
I tell parents my baby died
   and they scoff –
      what could I know of love?
 
I tell friends, acquaintances my best friend died
   and they rebuff –
      what could I know of love?
 
I tell partners my soul mate died
   and they chuff –
      what could I know of love?
 
I cling to wooden urns,
   carved with intricate flowers –
   on the backs of boxes their names scrawled in Sharpie,
   my tears willing cremated dust into dogs,
   into lumps of weighty flesh to comfort as I scream,
   and I cry myself to sleep as their ashes bay to me,
            “You know so much about love.”
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