Granted, you haven’t saved a person’s life
yet, and seeing-eye dogs of your relative
type have learned and led far more than you.
You jump and bite in playful snipes, not
harming anyone, if pleasing relatively few.
To boot, there’s nothing that you really do
to merit our attention, to yawp as Whitman would.
We’re packing for vacation and, we knew,
we’d need to pack our sundry stuff around you.
Wag your tail and bark and whine—the
car’s back third is yours to now subdue.
The sights you’ll see may not be ours: fall
colors, after all, are jealous to a human view.
But smells and sounds are your domain,
and sometimes, unannounced, we’ll rely on you,
unlike the guinea pig, or parakeets, or fish
or other critters in our care. We celebrate
the symbiotic sense: your and our fidelity is true,
unambiguously constant to the whims of pace.
Granted, theology is tendered in this grace.
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