They say these people are poor andthere are tremors somewhere near.
The immaculate dark child in pinklace with roses gracing her hairand tiny white“gloved hands(her brother properly white“shirted, barely weaned)beneath the crucifix seemssafe within wallsthat image violencetransformed forever.
Dogs, in their job of being mans best friend,die young in human years, retire toa scent“filled place where well“fed pets attendand lick the sores of mangy Lazari.
I have outlived, in order: Cole, the Cocker;Morry, Dachshund; Gertie, Airdale; Jenny,Collie; Smitty, Ridgeback; Ive watched the dogsof others die: Grannys shepherd Blitz;Barney, her fox terrier; Aunt HappysGreat Dane, Inge, a pair of scotties, Duncanand Fife; my brothers Mike, from Mexico;a neighbors corgi, Keesh, who bit my father.
Aging with me now, the bloodhound, Cleo,and pointer“spaniel, Dotty, who thinks I amher pup. She watches to make sure I dontescape, and licks me when Im near. Id almostlet her take me with her when she goes.Her nose is sound enough to find the deadId want to throw my arms around. God grantme in the afterlife a home with gracioushearth and grounds for all these lovesome hounds.
“Joyce S. Brown