Hips creak as she limps back to her bed,
behind the leather couch where Papa used to rest.
Gray hairs sprout from her black brows and snout,
and her russet eyes glaze towards the center.
Stopping before the thick, hair-infested bed,
her head hunches over and eyes stare blankly at nothing.
Stella, I call to the rusting dog,
and her head—still hunched—swerves towards me.
A huff escapes her twitching, crusty nose.
Let’s go for a walk, I say.
Ears perk. Head lifts. Tail thumps.
The ceiling’s lights danced off her wide eyes.
I repeat it again and she races to the back doors.
No leash is needed: she will remain dutifully by my side.


Rustling leaves, scampering critters feet, tractors’ engines—
her ears picked up what her old eyes struggle to see.
We follow tractor paths to the back fields,
pausing occasionally to allow her jolting nose
a whiff of every boot that sloshed through the farm.
KAREEEE!
A noise! so soft, but not unnoticed, whistles past our ears.
Hackles rising. Back hairs spiking.
A snarl escapes her teeth-baring lips.
She wobbles off for a third time—
up another path, through the poplar trees,
to the back fields where fog blankest the dipping rows.
A streak of black feathers, and I gape towards the sky as
glinting talons and the white head of an eagle
disappears into the gray overcast.

Stella? I call out, more in amazement than concern.
And there she is, bursting from bushes--
limp gone and her head held high above her shoulders.
These are Stella’s lands.
From there, we head back home—
the green house with vines and pink roses climbing up its sides—
and her prance returns to a limp; her head slowly descends.
I open the door, and her creaking hips creak by—
back to bed, behind Papa’s chair, where she soon thumps down.
Eyes glazing again, Stella falls into a soft-snoring sleep.