Little Black Sprite

 

We cannot begin to know
nor to understand what haunts
this small black presence so familiar
yet so distanced from us by
biology, but linked to us
through long years of shared love.

She has become other than
what she once was, but then don't
we all, as we inevitably age well
past adulthood and into agedness?
Patterns once recognizable and
reliable have suddenly muted.

Gradually, and for prolonged periods
some presaging element we cannot
know overcomes her. She stands
motionless, head alert to some sound
we cannot detect, as though being
called somewhere we cannot go.

Obedient to this mysterious malady
that has expunged her memory she startles
and removes herself from our company.
Restlessly pacing from room to room
refusing to be placated and comforted
she remains aloof and we distracted.

Forgotten, it appears, routine and
etiquette, as she becomes submerged in
some mysterious alteration we can only
hazard as emerging dementia and we
are silent also, but in grief, believing
her to be preparing to leave us.

She is, after all, fully seventeen years.
A dishevelled-looking miniature
poodle mix whose years with us
illuminated the potential for shared joy;
humankind and domesticated animal.
We are not prepared for her to take
her leave of us, and emphatically tell

her so. It seems that our message
may have been heeded. She now seeks
comfort in our presence, finding solace
and companionship with us once again.
Recalling the imperatives that were
observed, and according to her sterling
physical health, banished the

dank evil spirits brooding at the
entry-way of her mind, her character.
She is slowly shedding the symptoms
of disorder, once more assuming her
vital role as care-taker of our sunny moods.