Everyone hated Chloe, the terrier we bought
to teach you how to love—forget
her messes, the crate door she banged
open and shut, her manic
pull at the leash, her wants and
flaws we took as our own as we did
with you who didn’t yet speak,
your blunt pointer a question, an answer,
command, until five years in
Chloe lunged, teeth-bared
at your small hand—
I lied on the release forms
for someone to take her on trust
as we had, from a breeder
who cross-bred birds where
a peacock screamed on the lawn
and our soon-to-be dog bit
the edging that fenced her in—
so eager we failed to see her
spunk as runt anger the small
cannot live without, but you learned
so when the hamster died, your hand
blew out the back-door glass and
now our cat is dying from old age
or a growth the x-ray can’t detect,
science being less exact than fear
or wonder—his back knobbed as a rosary,
oh pet him, you who chose a hermit
as your patron saint, come to me,
my prayer a lonely abacus—my dog,
I can still hear her howl.