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
empty
carrier in hand.
Three feet deep
in the Annville earth
she is softening.