He has been gone a few weeks now. 
Grief has yielded ground to grateful
memories of that old Yorkie. My favorite
image is when my husband asked him,
“You want a biscuit?”

Our seventeen-year-old boy vibrated
like a plucked guitar string as he followed
his old man into our kitchen. A biscuit was
presented, and politely the old Yorkie
accepted his treat.

The treat hung awkwardly from both 
sides of his mouth, and with his canine 
grin, he challenged his person to try to steal
his biscuit. The chase was on.

They circled the couch at a brisk gallop, 
careened off a side table, ran into the hall, 
and back again. Both seemed oblivious to 
age, infirmities, or dignity.

I sat and laughed helplessly at their antics.
When the biscuit softened sufficiently, 
the old Yorkie chewed his prize. The old 
man flopped onto the couch.