We Come Back As Dogs

What if the truth is

we come back as dogs

who can’t tell us

who they really are,

which is why

they act crazy —

spinning in circles,

chasing their own tails,

licking our faces

like they’re made of

quickly melting ice cream.

Maybe there’s a little carryover

from their previous lives,

which is why they nap all day

like Nana or Poppy used to

when their eyelids became as heavy

as the slow decline of afternoon light.

Maybe when we reenter the world

we return to our prehistoric state

when early man could only say:

I’m hungry.

I need to go outside.

I love you more than you’ll ever know.

By barking.

Which was once upon a time

the official language.

Back when we said so much

with our eyes,

the way all dogs do

when they stare into our souls,

which they see as clearly

as a CAT scan.

Or try to signal us

with their tails

and jiggling butts

like they’re desperate

to win a game of charades

no one at the party can figure out.

Playing fetch?

The message is clear:

I will always return to you.

Sleeping at your feet?

I dream of you.

This pantomime companionship

never lasts long enough.

Ten years.

Fifteen if you’re lucky.

It takes that long

to learn the way of the dog

who despite

the sudden decline

remains a puppy

right up to their final breath.

Which may be

their lesson to us all:

Stay young.

Stay daffy.

Stay eager.

Devour every moment

as if it’s one more chance

to prance like a pony

through a rambling field

of playground snow.