Vanishing Into Herself

She is a shaggy little creature, her coat
just never seems to stop its bid to escape
her inner essence and I sometimes wonder
if, left unshorn, it would of its own accord
stop its plush, dark, curly-soft advance
once it completely absorbed her bones and
sinew, muscle and skin into its tangled skein.

Her sprightly long-legged pace would be
absurdly hampered, much as it seems when
we place those detested winter-time boots
over her small, daintily-tender paws and she
advances, hesitantly, lifting her hind legs
deliberately, in a Lipizzaner prance.

She once protested wildly at the imposition
placed upon her freedom of movement by
pulling a warm winter coat over her before
meeting the outside chilly temperature
and mounds of snow on our daily travels
into and about our handy wooded ravine.
With age ravaging her, the warmth and
comfort of a soft shirt now suits her well.

As I snip and trim her paws, ears, muzzle,
legs and body, she stands more patiently now
than when she was young and eager to dash about;
more eager now to doze for unending hours, too.
Her small bony frame with its slight padding
has me fearing the near future that will take her
elderly presence from us, also elderly.

Her eyes, once glass-button-bright are now
opaque with age. Our encouraging blandishments
fall now haplessly on deaf ears. But her brave heart
beats strong and true, and her lungs are clear
and her thin legs remain capable of pumping
miles of trails into the far distance and then
eagerly return to the home we have left behind.

She is now constantly alert to her creature
comforts of bed and blanket, food and treats.
Yet curious still she is, her sense of smell intact;
her tactile sensual pleasure in ear and chest rubs.
She is now a dignified elder, paying attention
when it suits her purposes, and who are we
to think we have the right to demand more?