Rosemary’s Puppy


Daylight Savings drooped over us on Saturday night. I’m bad at math, but an extra hour on Sunday morning was fine by me. These last few evenings after work, though … DARK. The puppy sleeps through the night now. He’s moved on from cowering under the bed at the sound of silverware drawers and doors slamming to creating total household havoc. Rosemary’s Puppy, I call him, from the hours of 7-11 p.m.

But Durango is a cool dude. I like watching the process of his personality becoming. He’s a loving guy that hates loud noises. He’s curious. He’s bouncey. He has one tall white sock. His brindle coat changes color with the changing light. And like most puppies, he sees with his mouth, not his eyes.


Derek asked me on Sunday, “How many people have called him Lefty?” Honest answer: only me. It happened a few times, accidentally, of course. Calling your new dog your old dog’s name is not as much accident as habit. But I think about Lefty all the time. I dreamt about him last night, even—that I’d given him a bath and he had the most luscious, soft and shiny curly black mane. He always did have good hair, didn’t he? Anyway, the garden where we buried him is growing up fine in all this rain, and I can’t wait to see the tulips and daffodils go crazy there in the spring. Lefty, you are with us.

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