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  • Writer's pictureDon Rearden

My Ghost Dog


some nights

I still feel her there

curled up below

my side of the bed

where she slept

fifteen winters

sixteen summers


in the darkness

I step over the pile

yesterday's clothes

in her place

socks for ears

shirt for a snout


I want to reach for her

give her a pat

scratch behind an ear

lift her to me

she'd press her muzzle

to my neck

somehow hold me


this little furry creature

who feared nothing

helped me understand

we're never alone


her ghost is still here

reminding me

reassuring me


walking and sleeping

at my side



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