Jovie

Named after a Christmas Elf,
Assumed tribute to a hair band from Jersey,
You were our Edward Scissorhands,
Nails clipped,
Razorblades--
Like an angel
Born with weapons for hands.

You sat and waited,
For attention,
For any privilege at all,
For permission to be present.

You were, after all, a refugee,
From the tyranny of some eugenics experiment
A century old,
And responsible,
For your murder.

But I am no less responsible.
After all,
Without them,
You don't exist,
To be abandoned,
To be adopted,
To be taken for granted,
To be,
Just another dog,
In fact,
The doggiest dog
We could ever imagine.

But then,
Your breeding makes you hurt,
Agonizing for some ideal
From some other era,
Not bred to be the beautiful girl I know,
My late night companion,
For Cukor to Romero.

Bred to thrive or die.

Yesterday,
I found myself playing
Eat Your Face
With your sister.
I wasn't very good,
But I tried.
And trying,
I found some better part
Of myself.

You taught me much about love,
About compassion,
About presence,
About persistence.

In the end,
You cheese smooching,
Bombast barking,
Dog hair dustorm,
Whale talking,
Hard kisser,
I miss you.

And I'll tell any story worth telling,
To make it better.

Whatever they may think,
I'm better
For you.