Question

poem about dog and his best friend

Answer 1

He wakes me with a laugh and a rustle of sheets,
sunlight spilling across my sleeping paws.
A leash becomes a promise; the world opens
in scents and sidewalk songs—his hand steady at my shoulder.

He knows where the best smells hide,
which puddles hold the richest mysteries,
how to make a tennis ball fly like a comet.
I know when his laugh is the one that will last,
and when to press into the hollow of his knee.

We map the same small streets like explorers,
recording the day in footprints and crumbs.
When thunder grumbles, I plant myself between him and the noise;
when the day is heavy, I lay my head where his hands can find me.

There are evenings of slow, warm quiet—
a shared couch, the TV muttering like distant rain,
his thumb tracing the lines on my ear as if reading me
for secrets only he can translate.

Years tuck silver into my muzzle and patience into his pace,
but loyalty is not counted by spring or step.
It is the way he still reaches first,
the way I still answer without thinking.

We are a small constellation:
one bright, one faithful, circling the same light.
And in the simple geometry of a nuzzled face,
we keep each other close, each other's home.