Skippy Jon Jones Known to us November 14, 2016 - February 21, 2019

An Ode to Skippy Jon Jones  

A beloved dog gone in November is grief

A stray scratching at a door is hope

The door opening kindness

I already knew you 

Just for the weekend, really

You hold your own with the snuffing Boxer

Thanksgiving and not housetrained you are still here

Rules at first; crates and gates

You, an otherworldly woodland sprite, follow them but do not obey

And then it is the first Christmas

New collar, new bed, new family

You with memories that make you lick metal and flinch when a book falls off the table

You learn to snarfle in the couch but still you keep your counsel

Your baby fox face watching me

Watching everything, missing nothing

Always there when chopping carrots

Not housetrained still but we accept

No crates no gates by the second Christmas

Morning spot, cooking spot, sleeping spot

Bright eyes at my heels

Can I come to work dance

Routines made of gratitude

Love shining through habituation

And then, a cough that does not go away

An Xray and a diagnosis lead to medication and to panic

The vet tells us; we know

We’re only buying time

Everyday counting out pills and watching

Thanksgiving

A stroke; you don’t know us for  a while; flinch when we approach

You recover as the advent calendar counts down

The third Christmas brings a new dog bed and more bloodwork

An infection rules your body

Dreams rule your sleep

Food no longer interests you; I push fingers dipped in peanut butter toward you

Eat something, please

Valentines Day and what is love

Bright eyes still watching but now also telling

One day a bloody nose

No harmless reason

The vet again and this time we leave without medication, without you

Grief comes in all seasons