Preface: This is a poem I wrote when we lost our 12-year-old Tess to cancer. Chuck is the puppy I\'m describing in the poem. Even if we had known we would only have him a short 3 1/2 years, we wouldn\'t trade those years for the joy he brought us. The puppy hops across the floor, as if each leg is spring loaded He reaches the red tennis ball managing to grab it with his baby needle point teeth. He brings it to me, happily stumbling all the way â€" but never drops it. Taking it from him I put it in front of his eyes and say, †Ball. You brought me the ball. Good boy.†I lift it and bounce it gently across the room, †Get the ball. Get the ball.†I think of his predecessor and how the word sent her in a frenzied search through the house. Under the couch? The bed? Not there, not thereâ€Ã��.until finally she would appear. Dirty, dusty ball in mouth, but from where? She rarely came up empty. It†s hard to remember her puppy days but I do recognize the hopping, the stumbling. How long did it take to teach her †ball†? There are the accidents. Poop on the rugâ€Ã��the shower of pee everywhere when I walk in the doorâ€Ã��his baby bladder reports his excitement. I remember that, too, vaguely. I walk through the designer pet store and reach for the puppy food, organic, super fitness mix for uncompromising nutrition. His predecessor got the generic store brand. †Do you want to go for a walk?†I ask him. He stares at me, unmoved. †A walk?†I don†t even have to spell it out. I can put on my tennis shoes or accidentally bump the leash as I pass it in the hall â€" it rattles, he registers nothing now. He will, in time. Even on her last day, her very last day, the sight of the leash brought a smile to her face, eyes begging for a walk on the three legs that would still support her. He travels around the dinner table, weaving in and out of our legs, biting the hems of our pants. Looking up at us with wide, adoring eyes. †No, we can†t feed him table scraps.†I firmly lay down the law. When I took her to the vet, she wasn†t eating. Their records show the last visit had been five years before. That time there were stitches â€" she had lost a fight with her bigger stepsister. I joked, †I bring her here every five years whether she needs it or not.†He†s got the puppy package, all the vaccinations, the dog care tome, the puppy behavior consultant â€" the works. To be faithfully followed with annual check ups. I create for myself the new spiritual path of the healthy dog. The religion of the non-dying dog with its rituals, like most, born out of pain and fear. Ha ha