my blankets are riddled with you, 
tiny midnight hairs stubbornly remain and
prick my sides. 
As if they retain the memory 
Of me asking you to move so that 
I may enjoy the bed you were sprawled 

It must be a hound thing,
the inate ability to speak so loudly
with not only the bayish bark 
but those mischivous judgemental eyes.
Whenever I would call you in but
there was something on the wind 
that was so much more important than whatever
was being said by the porch 

unless it was treat, ride, bone, walk,
farm, or puppies.

You were a sucker
for pup cups and whatever was in reach,
maybe a carelessly guarded pizza slice 
or cat food that was brazzenly left unattended.
Your favorite were hoof trimmings.
You were the only hound who stayed round

(mainly to roll in the freshest 
pile of barnyard soil the sheep and donkeys
could provide) 

It broke my heart to see the white
snow pepper across your’s and Whisky’s
snout. To see the tumor grow and grow
your breath growing laborious 
the walks not lasting nearly long enough. 

The terrible habbit of eating soft toys finally
caught up, synthetic rabbits are far worse
than the bunnies you swore you could catch. 
You pulled through, I knew my good girl could.

I think your tumor is gone now, I think you still
get treats.

All I have are these memories and hairs.