I miss my dog Roscoe. I took care of him for 2 years after my grandma died. He lived to be 17, almost 18. One night, toward the end of his life, when all he could do was sleep and eat, he got up out of his bed and painfully walked down the hallway to drink from his bowl. As he returned, he paused in the doorway for a moment, then came over to me so that I could scratch behind his ears and pat his head. He turned and went back. As he laid down he let out a big sigh. An old man. An old friend.
As I write this
I can feel him
sitting on my feet.
The weight of him.
The touch of
his fur.
Breathing.
In and
out.
As men march off to war,
he knows more,
is more,
and means more than that
and moments like these
will never be
forgotten.
