Dog, you've been over the hill for a while now

Papa says that even when you're gone

We will be sweeping up hair for months

We could, probably, build a second you

But it wouldn't be the same

 

That bundle of hair wouldn't bark at the cat

That, currently, taunts you at the window

It certainly couldn't force itself out that door

during a walk, or yank on my arm like you do

 

Your hair only resembles you in one way, 

When I tell it to move it just sits there 

And it doesn't have bad hips as an excuse

It just isn't you. That hair is only a part of you. 

 

That means, Deacon, when you're gone,

I will only have pieces of you: that picture

I used for a report on you in seventh grade,

the fence that surrounds your dog yard,

the hole you tore in my favorite blanket,

the hair permanently on my clothes and floor

and my memory of my puppy. 

 

And, now, I guess, this poem

This goes to show that even if we have

the best toys like your tennis ball, or the most comfortable house

-your nice padded bed-

When we leave, we leave only pieces-

most likely not big ones-to be cherished. 

The funny thing is, most of the time

those pieces were never what we cherished

when we were there.