'Andrew'

If you weren’t litter-perfect you were close,
that day we had ‘first pick’ of all your daddy’s pups,
chubby, white and black with one white eye,
you could have been a panda cub;

an endearing, curious dog you were,
making eye contact with our human gaze,
not to dominate or challenge,
just gentle-friendly,

How could we not choose you?

Andrew, you endured indignities of baths and haircuts
and never made a whine or whimper,
but your happy self was always quick to sooth
our distress, and bad temper,

my buddy, my friend, I bring you now to Jo-Ann,
carry you to the cemetery with the
indian name --’Quidnessett’,
your quiddity now in convenient granulated form
(like some god-angering, Greek dog, transmuted into sand)
will slip easily into this hole I dig;

I think: 'will these granules, when rains
seep in and make your house all muddy,
will they stick to one another, and swell,
until you push a dirty paw up through the ground
and you come back to me from your dog heaven

or dog hell?'