by Lana Hechtman Ayers.
My husband embraces our little dog as
she flops baby-seal-like in his lap,
sun so bright on her head,
the tips of her black fur
iridesce to pink and purple.
She’s warm as a summer-plump berry.
Eyes blinking closed, open, closed.
Scents only a dog can sense,
her nose twitches like Samantha’s
on Bewitched before magic happens—
a breeze exactly cool enough for relief
rustles through the evergreen trees,
the wind speaks susurrus
& a chorus of birds chirrup love songs
on such an ethereal morning.
Eventually, we’ll rise from the bench,
from this moment’s eternity,
to escort our ailing little dog
to the vet’s office for a lethal injection
as my husband embraces her in his lap.