The Remembered Dog / Will Conley

The Remembered Dog

Will Conley

Content Notes: animal death

You see, he should have died a long time ago.

So I should not have expected a goodbye,

should not have hoped that my hands

would remember his last shuddering breath

and the clatter and collapse of his ribs, shaking themselves

into silence beneath a blanket of October-colored fur.

I should have known it would happen how it did.

I know I still would have cried

if I had seen the final tremble of his paw.

What I don’t know is how my tears would have tasted

if I had shed them into his fur,

or his water bowl, or the linoleum floor

instead of letting my sorrow drip into the dirt

at the county fair.

All I had was the whisper of him through a screen,

and all I could do was tell him:

My grief will always be unfinished

and your teeth will always be crooked

but I will remember, always, the color of your fur.