I never knew how you knew
when that moment was approaching.
A certain flourish of knife and fork?
The diminishing scent of melted butter?
Whatever it was your snout was scent cone perfect,
and from wherever you were
it would appear at my knees
having tracked down my last morsel.
It became my custom
even when you were elsewhere
to leave it for you
anyway.
And though you are in doggy heaven
or at least in transit
or given the season of Samhain
waiting for the gap between worlds to appear,
I sit, like some latter day medium,
a crust of bread on my knee,
hoping to entice, conjure or recall
you back to the table.
Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard
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