My dog left a chipmunk for me

On the stoop, top step, hidden from view until I stepped out

As a gift, I’d like to think

But by the way she considered it afterward

Perhaps not. Unrecognizable as it was

Its body, stiff, exposed

Its eye leaking, a trickle of old blood running

Down the cheek

As it lay dead

Paws extending, reaching up, reaching out

But for what? I could not say.

Not for relief—it had already come

Not for mercy—it had already been given

Not for life—it could not be granted.

My dog looked at the chipmunk she had brought

As if she could not understand the body

Without the spark of life that made it run

From her teeth and claws,

An image that my tenderness could not bear to

Contemplate, and yet,

As I removed the body,

Hiding it at the bottom of the cold compost,

I thought about the last moments anyway—

The fear, the scramble, the hiding

The final, awful bite.

A retrospective hope blooming,

As I would hope for any creature,

A quick and painless end.

Yes, a quick and painless end

For the next creature my dog decides to bring

For my dog herself when she can no longer chase

For me, oh, especially for me.

And yes, of course for you.