Swan Song for a Dog Mom

In honor of Mother's day.

I will pick up your hot, steaming poo, even when it’s unbearably stinky and dribbles. I will defend you, even though I know you really tried to bite that mastiff. I will try not to be embarrassed when you sniff my crotch with utter absorption. I will throw the ball for you until my arm hurts. And my newly manicured nails get filthy with dirt and grass.

I will try not to laugh at other dogs when they chase you. And fail miserably.

I will talk to other dog Moms, even though I’d much rather watch you prance, and dance, and shimmy. I will clean your spit from the car windows, even though I tell you to use the handy wipes. I will take you to the Home Depot. I will let you stand in the cart as I wheel around the garden department, watching you flirt with people in orange aprons.

I will try not to kiss you in public. Or fix your ears when one flops backwards.

I will let you lick my face and try not to remember if it was a dog’s butt or goose droppings that you licked right before. I will take you to the lake so you can practice your hunting skills on a stick. I will fish you out when you suddenly remember that you’re a dog, not a duck. I will yell at you when you run across the street. To catch a squirrel, or a ball, or a plastic bag.

I will cook an extra burger on the grill to add to your dinner. I will watch you eat yours before I eat mine.

I will hunt down shank bones in the meat department. I’ll try not to look offended when the butcher asks for my number. I will give you baths in the bathtub I’ve just cleaned. I will run the water between warm and warmer, just the way you like it.

I will try not to brag about how pretty your eyes are.

I will smooch you shamelessly when you snuggle up to me, too drowsy to avoid my kisses. I will lie awake the nights you run a fever. Or throw up. And look at me with that utterly miserable face. I will wish I had the power to heal your physical distresses as effectively as you heal my emotional ones.

I will look at my parents kindly when they scold me for not having children. For I’ve known more motherhood with you over the past five years than a lifetime of parenting could ever teach.

I will think of how the tips of your mouth turn up in a smile when I’m on the train commuting home.

I will not think of a time when your tiny body will not bring mischief and magic to the day. So I try not to get moody or expose you to my ill-temper. For I know you are one thing and only that. The most perfect form of companionship that could be shaped in flesh, bone and velvet ears.