When they die I think in Poetry
Otherwise not
Seems Pain is the only ink
Between us then
I used to confuse her name with his
The boy’s
He said I didn’t know his name
Couldn’t remember it
But it was the same
With all of them
The litany of names
To call them out. The one
The same with the dogs
She’s gone now
Left after I asked her not to
Yet stayed for a while after that
All black and gray now
I sang her song
Kisses all over my face
She knew her name
Tula Died on Sunday, March 13, 2022. She would have been 12 on June 16. There’s no one here now who knows all of the songs: It’s Suppertime!; Lullaby and good night; Let’s go for a walk; Walkin’, Talkin’…
When it’s time, it’s time, but it takes so much along with it. No one tells you that.
Here’s my all-time favorite photo of her. It’s from when she was a pup and just learning things. She was so proud everytime she mastered something, and she loved this hoop to its very death. I was always sad I could never find another to replace it. But that’s OK. Later on in years she decided she would not bring anything back. No retrieving. Nope. Too adult for the childish nonsense. But then she decided she would only listen to instructions by choice. No blind obedience crap. I’m glad I honored her choices and her decision to be an equal partner in our relationship. It worked.



This is an old photo of the current love—Tula. (Of course that’s only one name of many—a shortened form of Talulah.) This is in Colorado where we played in the Manitou stream. Alone or with others, sometimes many others. Where she first met moving water. And became a child of the creek.