We’ve had a wet and cold spring.
I have been just as gloomy and gray.
My world is mud and wet dog smell.
The sky gives no bright light— offering
only the chilling rain—now goading
termites and demanding the creeks flood.
I am restless, but inert.
Swaddled in a down comforter—
The dachshund nestled against me.
The older dog prefers
the cool floor next to my bed.
Both will follow me if I get up.
Their tales wag and they
lift their heads when they
feel my gaze on them.
The dachshund rolls over
exposing her most
vulnerable self to me.
Her love is deep and true.
I give her belly rubs and
she writhes with pleasure.
The older dog,
more polite, stands and puts
both her paws on the bed.
She is waiting her turn but
staying close lest I forget
her. I don’t. I wouldn’t.
We are now all awake
at midnight on a Thursday.
I am hungry. They always are.
I listen to feet and paws
make the old wood floor sing
in the creaky voice of an old woman.
The cat joins our parade.
The three of them jockey for
position around me.
Bent over, I peer into
the refrigerator, looking
for something easy and warm.
Something comforting.
There is cheese. There is bread.
There is butter.
It is the kind of cheese
most people reject
as inferior and uncouth.
It’s my favorite for grilled cheese.
I use equally maligned bread.
But the butter is Irish.
It tastes of emerald grass and
sunny meadows.
Yellow like daffodils.
The old cast iron pan will
hold two sandwiches—three
slices of cheese each is required.
Dog tails thump on the
faux stone of the kitchen
floor. They know that smell.
The old dog tries to put her
paws on the edge of the stove
to see and smell better.
“Phoebe. No,” I say. A soft whisper
as if we might wake someone.
The older dog sits, her tail thumps.
When the sandwiches are done—golden
brown, melted cheese dripping—
the nutty smell of browned butter,
I lift them with the red spatula—
the small one that looks like
a child’s toy—and lay one per napkin.
I cut them diagonally.
The forehead-kiss triangles
oozing cheese.
Two for me and one
for each dog who are both
done eating before I even sit.
Two sets of brown pleading puppy
eyes stare up at me from the floor.
The yearning summons Oliver Twist.
Please, Ma’am, may I have some more.
“No,” I say. I eat both halves.
Yet they still love me.
The gloom and gray are smaller
now. I know the rain will end
and the sun will lighten us.
