My little hound is now thirteen,

a geriatric beast.

His muzzle’s white, his teeth are green,

He cannot hear, his eyeballs sheen,

His trembling legs make him careen –

He’s changed, to say the least.

But little Guster runs our fields

with undiminished zest.

At meals, his twirl-dance never yields,

His sister-dogs stand guard as shields,

His baying bark with force he wields –

He’s our beloved pest.

The woman in my mirror holds

me with a steadfast gaze.

Her temples white, her neck in folds,

Her eyelids puffed from dust and molds,

Her hormones give her hots and colds –

She’s seen a lot of days.

What can I learn from Guster’s spark,

his joy in life’s old age?

I’ll hang on to my baying bark,

I’ll chase some rabbits in the park,

Then cuddle friends when it gets dark –

He’s quite the canine sage.