We met when I was nineteen, 
she twelve— 
old enough to be my grandmother. 

Three paws 
dappled with vitiligo, 
eyes crossed blue. 

The curious 
thump thump 
of a tripawd companion. 

Nights on my chest, 
days in my arms. 
Sunbathing and waiting in the window. 

Fighting opioid pills and an ailing soul, 
I got better. 
She got old. 

The first injection 
induced sleep. The second 
stopped her heart. 

I walked through the parking lot 
carrier in hand. 

Three feet deep 
in the Annville earth 
she is softening.