“I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts,
then there is no more hurt, only more love.” —Mother Theresa
Help is on the way in the form of two poodles,
dogs you didn’t want, dogs who were supposed to be
temporary, just for two to three months
while their owner healed from a broken arm,
dogs who were not leash-trained and arrived tentative
in your house with all your rules and regulations, your
don’t-get-on-the-couch! and why-are-you-doing-that?
and stop-scratching! but you are now the one who takes them
to the vet to help with the itching, and you’re the one
who gives them antihistamines—you were the dispenser
of a thousand medicines to your last dog, the one who died
less than a year ago, the one who needed more help some days
than you wanted to give but you doled it anyway because your love
for that dog chained you to this world even when it was hard—and these two dogs
now, dogs you were not meant to keep, have been with you for eight months
and counting, and you don’t call them yours because someone else
is footing the bill, but when you amble down the stairs in the early morning,
still so tired from the sleep you did not get, the first thing you do
is go to the beds on the floor where the poodles lie and put your arms
around them, scratch their bellies, rest your head against theirs
and for a moment you forget
about the sleep, the hurt, your parents’ growing frailty,
and the days that might come that scare you
and the world is small
and manageable
as you lie there
against all the odds.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 2.
Shuly Cawood is the author of the memoir, The Going and Goodbye (Platypus Press, 2017). Her creative writing has been published in places such as The Rumpus, Zone 3, San Pedro River Review, Prime Number Magazine, and The Louisville Review. She received the 2014 Betty Gabehart Prize, and her website and blog can be found at www.shulycawood.com.
See all items about Shuly Cawood
