Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Stinky

Yes,
that’s the name
I gave you.
Not Max or Oscar,
or Fred,
or Jack.
Stinky.
Maybe it was your coffee breath,
or the gas you expelled in my bed,
or the poopages you left right on the brick patio
when you had over an acre of grass to choose from.
Maybe it’s the pee puddle you left by your crate
or the pieces of kibble scattered on my den floor,
or the poop you tracked in on your paws.
Whatever the reason,
you are Stinky to me
and you always will be.
You don’t know anything yet.
You don’t know who to trust,
or who to let love you,
or why the sky is blue,
or where you fit in the pack.
You don’t know me
and I don’t know you.
You don’t know how to bark
or why you sleep in the den
or where your real mother is.
You don’t know where you’re next meal is coming from
or why the grass squirrels run when they see you coming.
You don’t know how to roll over on command or
why your red ball rolls down the hill.
And you certainly don’t know why the birds fly.
Everything is an adventure,
like the cardboard box in the hallway,
and the computer cable and the stereo wires,
and my green Crocs and my pink socks.
Everything is one giant amusement park.
I hope you stay Stinky forever.