Friday, March 26, 2010

I do not mean to write poetry, but it is my only therapy

I do not like spring. Except when it acts like fall. It is better than summer, but everything is, really.

hat and stuff 014

My dog Pixie died 2 days ago. I used to say she was a mostly good girl, just because she was incredibly stubborn, but the truth is, she was a very, very good dog. I have never known anyone sweeter. I will miss her snorty, snuggley, ever hungry and constantly paw pawing self. She was only a bit more than 5 1/2, so she will never be an old gray dog with arthritis or creaky knees. She was very silly and always optimistic, but no one could look more pitiful than her if she did not get her way. She hardly ever barked, she loved short walks, and bananas.

I wrote this yesterday, it doesn't really speak much about her darling personality, but I guess it is what I needed to write at the time. I'm sure there will be other dog poems to torture everyone with to come, maybe I will be able to resist the urge to post them all.

Spring was when my dog died

Spring was when my dog died,
But I didn’t care for spring much before then, anyways,
With its showy blossoms and encroaching heat.
One day I was walking around in my sweater,
The air crisp against my face,
And then the sun felt too close all of a sudden.
The birds all started eyeing me like I was after something that was theirs.

Spring was when my dog died,
But before she did
She got to see a few days of it.
She loved to sit outside
On her velveteen pillow,
Sunbathing like I never would.
She was much more a fan of spring than I am,
Even though she would sometimes sneeze as the pollen grew thick,
I don’t think she minded, though.
She didn’t like the snow
Or the cold wind in her ears.

Spring was when my dog died,
She got to see one last rabbit,
Had a good long walk,
And then took her exit
While the pear trees were in full bloom.