When I wasn’t looking

She’d been so good,

that dog of mine,

not bothering her stitches.

I didn’t make her wear the cone of shame

when I was home,

only if I went out.

She’d been so good.

—–

And so it was,

Easter morning,

she was sleeping

and I didn’t see the need to wake her up

to put on that cone.

Five minutes.

I just needed five minutes to shower.

And, she was sleeping after all.

—–

 I screamed at her,

that good dog of mine

who I found licking her stitches.

The damage was small;

my panic high

as I trussed her up

so I could go out

on this grey Easter morning,

the last day of Spring Break.

—–

  I fretted

the whole time I was out

worrying about the blood-bath

I might find

when I returned home

to that good dog of mine

who I left wrapped and coned

because she had

a moment of weakness.

—–

Driving home

I planned my trip

to the emergency vet

wondering how much

re-stitiching would cost

and how long

I’d have to wait

this last day of Spring Break.

—–

I opened the door

and she came running

that good dog of mine,

cone on

bandages in place

glad to see me

forgiving me my absence.

She is that good.