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The dog, older

By Corey Mesler


Saskia has gone deaf.

No more the call of

the wild. It falls on

stone. She can still

sing, loud enough to

disturb the quidnunc

neighbor, her song of

being, which I love,

which she herself hears

only in her heart. It’s

rough growing old,

so much dropping away,

lost. I move as gingerly

as she does. She gets

up slowly from her outdoor

mat. I hold the door for

her like a gentleman, just

as someone holds it for me.


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