Essay/Poem: Dog Talk

The bowl will eventually run empty.

Dog Talk   

It’s not always easy to talk to a dog.
Especially when spilling bad news.
“We ran out of dog food.” Or, “I’m
too busy to take you to the park.”
Or, “I have brain cancer. Not gonna
live long. You have to go stay with
Jasmine in her apartment. You know
Jas, you’ll be happy there. But you
must make peace with the elevator.
It won’t harm you.”  But dog has no
clue, you don’t get through. The words
elevator and cancer he doesn’t know,
but can sense they’re bad. These are
difficult conversations to be had.
Dogs don’t ponder death until it’s at
the door, and they can’t rise from the
floor, too weak to bark, even at the
mailman, perhaps the saddest sight
in life. Dogs live only for now, think
not of tomorrow, suffer no sorrow.
Like fish, who never think of water
until they’re out of it. Or people, not
unlike me, who assume the sun will
rise every morn and breath be fed.
Until one day the bowl sits empty.
The park is closed. The X-ray read.