My poor dog came to the back door,
green from paws to hips and shoulders,
his snout and haunches as well,
after a morning romp on the newly trimmed yard 
with Duke, his best puppy dog pal.

Geddy had been bathed late last week.
His white and orange fur glows when clean,
and he smelled for those five days
of French lavender and sugared oatmeal.
On nights like those, we share our bed with him.

Now, he begs to be let inside, 
soft green paws padding the door, apologetic.
He smells too much like a lawnmower, 
knows he will sleep in the doghouse tonight,
penance for his master’s mistakes.
                        

Tho’ I am a dog of modest wag, know this:
The small spot of pee on your carpet, 
marked now by an embarrassing-to-you, 
larger-than-really-necessary clean spot
was never meant as a mark of territory
nor as some canine disdain for you 
and your assumed human superiority.

I only needed to pee, 
and to keep you distracted
while I chewed your dirty socks
and retrieved the forbidden chocolates
you hide so poorly under the bed.

Someday, after I have gone, you will look back,
sighing forever that I am no longer there,
struck by the phantom leash weight
draining forever away from your hand,
the gentle pull of your best friend.

I hope you’ll enjoy your fully clean carpets,
your evenly and naturally worn-out socks,
and the relative safety of your chocolate.
You always were my favorite, my world…
I could never have wagged enough.