Most dogs take their shadows with them
But if Finn did, it returned, struggling free
From underneath the backyard flagstones.
It's not demonstrative, doesn't demand
To be fed or have its dark head scratched.
I see it when I'm not looking. It pretends
To be a black cat stretched out in the sun
Or to be cast by the old wicker rocking chair
Given away long years ago. My father
Half-believed that after you die your dog
Is called to testify about you. (Since dogs
Universally loved him he must have found this
A comforting thought.) Finn and I mostly
Got on pretty well but perhaps he still resents
The time I laughed at him when loud thunder
Made him squeeze through a hole too small
For him to have fit if fear had not turned his bones
To jelly. I apologized but if my shadow
Reaches Heaven without me, this may be why.
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