she says
to me,
petting her dog, picking
fleas out of
it's floppy ears.
she's holding the leash,
as the dog
lies down
in the sun.
really, she says again.
you should get a dog.
i see the plastic
baggies in her pocket
and one filled
gripped in her hand.
then there's the small white
bag from the vet
holding heart worm
pills, and other assorted
meds
to heal the dog of an
intestinal infection it picked
up after eating
a dead bird.
i love my dog, she says.
we go everywhere together,
she loves the car.
the dog looks up to her
with big brown eyes,
and stands, tugging at the leash,
misinterpreting what was
said.
no, sweetie, not yet.
not yet.
really, she says.
you should think about getting
a dog.
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