The Divine Old Dog has all of her pride,

even though her legs weaken,

arthritis slows her walk,

but not her pride.

The Divine Old Dog slips,

jumping into the car,

she falls onto the ice

on her back,

she is chastened, confused,

she is slow getting up.

On her walk, she listens for the chipmunks,

for the squirrels, she accepts her life,

she looks away,

on the coldest days she curls up,

by the wood stove, sighing,

dreaming of other days,

of rabbits and chipmunks caught,

she lies still and curled up in a ball, to warm

the soreness in her bones,

alone with the memories of a hard life,

and the loved ones she protected,

from all the dangers of the world.

Yesterday, a package came to the door,

a man in a brown suit knocked,

the Divine Old Dog did not awaken,

did not hear the knock,

no roar this day, no charge at the door,

to drive out the intruders.

The Divine Old Dog retreats to her dreams,

the Angels wait for her,

they know her well.