You start missing
the tail that wags your worries away
and gives you the same welcome
even if you end up in tatters
after losing the second world war.
She would sniff your pain
when you hide it like a contraband
deep inside the luggage of your soul.
Your dog would know the corner
of your bliss and ape your surrender
to show you the last venting place on earth.
We would cuddle, snuggle, nuzzle
she would lick my hands and save my face
as if I am a pope of sorts.
At the moment of her death
with all of us around,
the tail only stopped wagging
after the last breath.
After your dog dies
you come to grips with
with the idea of being human.
