Fiona’s Lament (Or, Ode to a Hot Diggety Dog)

By Fiona Shapiro-Harrington, Guest Blogger 


My cousin Rummy lay napping away, though the dog days had clearly arrived.
The humans stared stupidly into that window where people are much smaller sized.

I offered a stick to my wire-haired cuz; she remained aloof and imperious.
I prowled the house for bugs to pursue, but even they seemed too serious.

So with a loud sigh I dropped on the mat, set eyes on the fields and the fog.
In moments, though, came a blast from above; it was raining cats and dogs.

(Well, dogs.)

Thunder clapped, torrents whooshed, but through it all I could hear
A crunch of gravel, the growl of an engine, something drawing near.

Was I saved by this wind change?
Would this dog have her day?
Hope swelled like a tide in my hackles.

Woof-woof-woof-woof!
Woof-woof-woof-woof!
Would I soon break free of my shackles?

The car, now in front, was not one I knew, but still my tail moved like a dart.
And when the door opened, the tempest outside strode straight into my heart.

Love struck, I was, from the moment he strutted, the moment he peed on my floor.
(Later, I’d try to impress the same way, but when I weewee humans get sore.)

“Fiona,” my mother warned, “steer clear of Diggy. I’m afraid he is your first cousin.”
But no advice, no sensible words, would change the state I was in.

I shared all my sticks—a collection I cherish—my bear I let him dismember.
We tugged on socks, our jaws almost touching; I could stay that way till September.

My hedgie was his hedgie, my Frisbee, my kong; my kibble became his kibble.
We swatted at stinkbugs and tossed around rawhides (till Rummy and I had a quibble).

And just when I thought it couldn’t get better, for my birthday we were driven
To my favorite river, to my favorite rocks, where Frosty Paws we were given.

And then he was gone, as quickly as he came, off with the human named Emery.
And here I am, alone with my thoughts, my fears, my doubts, my memories.

Does he cherish, too, our 4th of July? Does he pine over me, as I him?
Or am I too young, or maybe too tall? Does he prefer a girl who can swim?

I’ll wait, and I’ll hope, love wide as an ocean.
‘Til then, oh, Diggy, we’ll always have Goshen.