Our dog has grown contemplative in her later years.

Each morning, she asks to go out onto the patio where,

with a labored sigh she eases her body onto the doggie bed

and looks out over the expanse of her domain.

 

I never had the heart to tell her she cannot claim it as her own

since it is a golf course. I suppose it doesn’t matter.

What she does not know will not harm her. Even the arthritic

stabs in her joints are forgotten once she is settled.

 

Her groans may resemble my complaints when I lower

myself onto the rocking chair next to her bed, but unlike

mine, hers do not chime with echoes of regret.

At least, I hope she is spared that burden.

 

If she could look back, would she say it was a life well-lived?

I’d like to think I did right by somebody. With my bare toes

I stroke her sleepy head as her yellow coat glows

under the warm light of the rising sun.

​

by Michael Ballard