Spot Poem by L C Vieira

You had a young pup
when you were eight.
It fell through the ice,
one Michigan spring.
You tell me this at our 'ice out' -
the pause when winter's ice is melting,
and we can witness our small lake
turn to, as if, a pie crust - cracked.

'Down it went, ' you tell the story,
the boy and his dog,
white spot, brown rump,
slipping quickly
down and under -
way too quickly
down and under.

Nothing left for you.

Nothing left to carry home.

No prize, no tales except
the horror
and those four words,
'the dog is dead.'

A family practiced,
passing whimsy,
they plan what's next,
the next replacement.

But -

in just three hours,
comes that bark,
the famous one
at your back door,
tongue and tail all a-wag
happy for himself and you.

Your dead dog
dares to travel back
white spot, brown rump,
and spot-on dry.
Happy. Happy.
You remember.

Your childhood river
of fossils and fish
carried him home -
under, under, out, and up -
the grateful dog,
so terribly sorry for him and you,
sorry to have left your side.

You pondered the puzzle,
returned to the site,
and wondered years 'til now.
But what did you learn?
I ask, amazed.
You chuckle, you share
the day you changed,
that monumental famous day
you started young to be most careful -
'Prove they're dead
before you claim it! '

(2012)