I stretch,
toss Panda gently
onto the wet grass,
duck back under the eaves
hoping my pup will do her business,
meaning business,
and come right back to me,
so we can retreat
to dry inside.
Panda Girl doesn’t get it.
Rather, she prances
like the princess she is
all the way across the yard,
high-born head and flag tail regal
both held high.
She turns as if to summon me,
What are you waiting for?
“Panda, come,” I command.
She tilts her head.
No. You come,
her stance manifests.
She stays, tail wagging,
sky leaking moisture
all over her seven-pound self.
Yesterday’s grass clippings cling
to her black and white fur
with leaves and other bits
of yard debris.
I sigh,
start out with shoulders scrunched,
head bowed
to let my back take the brunt
of today’s assault on earth.
Panda sees and circles joyful,
plants feet,
barks,
See! I told you!
The water’s fine.
I lift head,
straighten shoulders,
relax, and walk
in the wonder:
my rain-dancing dog’s right.
* * *
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