Dog was a good dog.
Short-haired, brown, big, he romped
with me down dirt roads crossing open fields
but things changed when Dog learned
how to solve quadratic equations.  

Scientists coveted Dog, wanted
to learn how he did it, develop his skills.
Perhaps there were things
they could learn from him.
So, Dog went.  

Dog remains a good dog.
Sometimes he returns to play with me.
His brown eyes know I’m  lonely.
But when time comes for him to go back
I don’t fuss.  

Sometimes I visit Dog.
He’s learned to sit in a chair and wear
a white lab coat at the conference table.
Scientists slap their foreheads, amazed,
as Dog solves every equation they can imagine.    

Ultimately, I turn away.
It’s time for me to go home.
Still, I’m proud.
Dog is my dog
even though he isn’t anymore.