Marvin Lurie

Dog-walking At the Humane Society, Sully

Visit Sully,
ninety pounds of black fur and dark brown eyes.
He takes my treat,
mouths it, puts it down, stares at it.
He walks next to me, stops when I stop,
doesn't sniff anything or wag his tail.
His kennel card says, "divorce, family breakup."
And no one wanted the dog?
Didn't he greet you enthusiastically enough?
Were there children he wouldn't play with?
Did he take sides?

I'm challenged to get a wag out of him,
and I do, a few when I sit down and say his name.
He pushes his head against my thigh
while I stroke his back, scratch his rump and talk to him.
When I stop, he looks up at me until I start again.

Then I say, "I have to go now Sully.
We'll talk again next week."

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