My dog is dying. He’s 18
and turns circles when he eats;
spinning like a clock near his bowl,
each turn taking him closer to death.
My son says “There’s an escalator
that goes to doggie heaven.”
He asks if he can go there
to see the dogs at play.
My dog looks like a fox
though he was never cunning.
He’s always splayed and half asleep
but in my mind he’s running like he used to;
his trim legs grabbing at grass with glee.
When he dies, so will a part of me.