So purposeful,
a perfect receptacle,
some kind of ecstasy
had a hold on Pugsley.

His snout mashed flat
as though he had arrived too late
on a closing gate.
His tail curled across his back
as though his draw string pulled too tight.
And his body!
A little legged root beer barrel.

In deep north-eastern winter
I stand a well bundled boy
and pack the snow to baseball size.
He is all alertness, and then
with the aplomb of a Johnny Callison
right field peg to the plate, I throw deep.
With a yelp, he is off!
a wild dash through the gap
far into the cold covered hay field
that borders our yard.

A snuffle snort hunt
causes cloverleaf upon cloverleaf
in paw prints.
He lifts his powdered mug
wide-eyed and laughing.

With an hour passed
having given his all,
at dusk he waddles home.
His pink tongue pokes
each panting breath,
the tags jingle a satisfied defeat.

Drying fur, warming bones
on his carpet square by the heat vent,
snoring deep and low
dreaming that darn elusive snowball.

For me,
to be so.

To truly be.

09/21/2006

Author's Note: He was a sage, much like the great Yogurt from that all time outer space classic, “Star Search.”

Posted on 09/22/2006
Copyright © 2026 David Hill