I found your name in an encyclopedia
searching for a word capturing
your barbaric ways.

And you were nothing but a pup
purchased at the vet
to console my younger daughter
when the older abandoned us.

Your kinky Airedale fur
drew hands to your lion head
for a cuddle caress, not that
you’d hold still, preferring
frisking, scampering away.

You probably knew right away
we were as untrained as pet owners
as you were as a terrier pup.

The time we left you in the laundry room
with a radio playing
while we went to work
didn’t bode well
as you tried to claw your way through the door
and wound up trapped behind the drier
and chewing through electrical cords.

And by the way your manners never improved.
Visitors frightened by  your 70 pound
muscular body hurling yourself
as they entered the door,
your massive paws on their shoulders.

We finally settled on leashing you
to the bookcase in the living room
when guests were expected.
Your brute strength could have toppled
the books but you felt contained
and so were.

All the years of walking through the neighborhood
you straining on the leash pulling me along,
neighbors saying who’s walking who.

The last trip to the vet where it took two of us
to carry you to the car and on the way
a sweet smell erupted, your spirit leaving.

And the next day me lying on the sunroom hemp carpet
weeping, bereft in the empty house.