Remnants
by Michael Maul
Young or old, by the time they get to me
these dogs have already travelled
a long way.
Their path to my door passes first
through adult daughters and sons,
whose new circumstances
(college, babies, careers, divorce)
suddenly make life with dogs impossible.
In the air, they can smell the change.
They trot to the cupboard where I keep boxed treats,
while sneaking sideways peeks
into corners where they could sleep,
or glance down hallways toward unfamiliar rooms.
Then I lay a blanket on the floor and
the new dog begins to scratch and bunch,
dig and pile and adjust, lifting corners
with its teeth or plowing furrows with its nose.
And lays down when complete, exhaling in relief,
signaling the change is done:
he has a space and found someone.
So on we live, in good-natured ways
through happy-enough dog and people days,
some touched by sickness, some by age.
But at the door each day begins
when all stretch out,
then leash in hand,
one by one come out again.
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