When I pick him up
and tilt to the bathtub
he falls limp with shock
This cannot be. . . .
Then it’s dark thoughts
from dark eyes, the dog
I love so much hates me
A torture worse than death.
All sudsy now, scent of clover
and dead leaves washed away
with lavender and lemon.
How could you?
The sprayer — that cobra of doom
strikes again and again.
Even if it feels good
I’ll never say so.
After a brisk towel rub
he springs all over the house
a hero home from the war
The bath? It was my idea.
— Ashley Memory
