terrypetersen

Dogs’ lives are too short. Their only fault, really. (Agnes Sligh Turnbull)


Philander, Guard Dog

I thought Philander was his growl, 
low threatening, as he protected his yard.
Squirrels, raccoons, humans stay away.

His bark warned that my bite maims, lames, destroys. 
The gate remained locked for good reason.
My friend, his owner, claimed he was as docile 

as a newborn pup when he wasn’t acting as Guard Dog
for his sacred territory—the yard. I would have
preferred capturing a wolverine with my bare hands

to greeting him. From a distance. He remained outside 
to minimize my wheezing, to facing my allergic reactions.
Occasionally, his old beagle friend, Lady, sneaked inside.

She was nearly blind, gentle. I grew fond of her. Not him.
Then one day, I saw the back gate wide open.
Two white cans stood on the mantle inside. Ashes.

Lady had died. I didn’t know
Philander had been her daily protector.
He had gently held her ear in his mouth and guided 

her arthritic wobble down the stairs into his yard.
In his grief, he had gnawed 
at his own limbs

until they bled, festered.
He had stopped eating 
and followed her. 

Now the friends remain inside two white cans.
Unchangeable, identical. Gone. I mourn
without ever having known either fellow creature.

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