Ode to my Dearest Foxy

ode to my dearest foxy

 

she is old now

her eyes are milky with the aftermath of the cataract apocalypse, the mushroom cloud of eye disease

her leg really doesn’t move like it should, a bone snap here a muscle tear there

 

I’ve said it time and time again, she’s gonna die

the last time I said she’s gonna die was last thanksgiving

the sweet smell of spice and the orange-tinted cloud of rosemary essence

is punctuated with foxy, dressed as a canine pilgrim, convulsing on the hardwood floor soaked in urine

the carving of the turkey was stopped by my dearest foxy having a stroke

she’s gonna die

 

sitting in the vet's office I tightly wrapped foxy’s wandering cloudy eyes in her soft paw printed blanket, the same one she was laying in when I pointed at her at the shelter and said, that one

 

this morning. no really out of nowhere. I don’t know, thirteen. this has never happened before, no. yam, chicken, sweet potato dog food mix.

 

“would you want her to be resuscitated?”

“of course, are you kidding? what kind of old yeller enthusiast veterinarian’s office is this?”

“we would break her ribs”

“yes, she is going to be fine”

I walked out of the room and said, she’s gonna die

 

after that I became notorious for joking about foxy dying

“sometimes when foxy is sleeping and she wags her tail, I think she’s stroking out again, someone get the vet’s office on the line”

“there goes foxy falling off her pillow again, cataracts really spreading to her brain”

“foxy are you barking because you’re dying or you see some food on the ground, let’s calm ourselves”

“when foxy yawns I think I can see her soul leaving her body, rest in peace”

 

“oh my god, you really can’t talk about your dog like that! poor foxy, poor girl, poor dog, you cannot talk about your dog like that, god you’re rude do you know that dogs can understand english, she probably knows you talk about her like that”

 

well guess what, she’s gonna die

here’s the truth, I joke about her dying because I’m scared that when she does, I can’t accept the fact that,

she’s gonna die

and that is the reality I don’t want to think of, I want to think about the humor of it all

I don’t want to look at my screensaver and see foxy rolling over on the stairs convulsing, I want to see her pictures and be able to laugh at the memory of holding her in my arms and placing her at the foot of my bed

she’s gonna die

and when she does

I don’t want to remember turning to her shaking on the floor realizing that I will not be able to handle her death, I pray that I’m going to laugh at the happiness she gave me when I know,

she’s gonna die

I’m not letting myself go with her

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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