Doggie afternoon

Dog. Dear.

An old dog sleeps under my drafting table, curled up
near the heat. Snoozing, snoring, looking up
when I drop a brush, curse, snort, dab hog bristle angrily
into a dish of turps.

Before her, as I lurched toward dotage, were Poochie, Bozo,
Dylan C. Dogg,
Aldonza.
Then Daisy, Cagney, Murphy.
And now 
Brownie.
Browngirl. Brownitude.
Lady Bronwen Marbella McGee.
Big name, smallish dog, grayish beard.
Noisy, she is. Barks all the time. Terrier mix. Or
something else. Rescued by me, she rescued
me from despair. I had killed Murphy.

Oh, no. I didn't shoot Murph or stab her. I loved her. But
I took her to the wrong vet. Who
missed the diagnosis. Six months later
she was dead. I decided, no more suffering for her. No.
And I took her to my old vet, far away. A good vet.
We cried, she and I, when Murphy left us.

I cried for days. Days. Whole days. In the sun
on my deck, no phones, no friends.
Grief, yes. Sadness, yes. Guilt. Oh yes.

My pit of despair even the sun wouldn't warm away. Or birdsong. Or
anything. And then the truth: another dog. A rescue. Again. A dog
that needed me.

Six hours later, Brownie was home. Peeing in terror, curling up
in corners, afraid to eat until she succumbed to
chicken offered by hand. Peeing if I turned around. Peeing if I left the room.
So frightened. Abused yes, but how?

To this day, I've never raised my voice to her. And still, she pees when
any little thing is odd. Frightening. Strange to her. Twelve years on.
Poor dear.

Curled now in the corner, near the heat, sleeping. She sleeps when I'm in sight or smell. She eats when I provide the food. She barks, snarls, growls when others
enter our...OUR...space.  

She pees, she barks. She picks at her food. She has never
once fetched. Swimming is going dog-knee deep, no more. She sleeps
on beds/sofas/chairs/wherever. She sheds
her coat maybe
four times a year. She shreds
paper. She's canine high maintenance.

The best dog I've ever had.