Just off-center of her crown
was a wound,
a ration of scar tissue
we'd run our fingers over
whenever we called her
to sit, or to go fetch
a chew from across
the floor.
She'd been found down by the creek.
Her oversize paws immersed
in its bed, her snout ribboned with mud.
She wormed her way
into our daily order,
throwing her shadow
with ours as we walked
from room to room,
or lying up against
the wall for long
stretches, her eyes
halfway open as we drifted by.
What road she came on,
her habits with an old
master remained vague.
Though someone taught
her to shake, to hold her
paw out as a gratuity
or a screen
against what strikes
without warning,
the meager days.
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