I met her in high school:
she had bleached blonde hair, eyebrows that could raise on a dime
and a tough-as-fuck attitude.
Compared to my good-hearted, please-everybody ways, she was the ultimate punk rock princess.
She had a few things she loved that ended up surprising me:
(to the extent that she cannot watch a show where even a stunt animal, though safe, performs the act of being injured)
She once confessed that she secretly respected Luther Vandross because when she heard his voice she could tell, "he loved that woman!"
Though time would reveal it was in all likelihood a man, it matters not:
she knows pure love when she sees it, when she hears it sing.
In 2006 she adopted a pomeranian mix from a shelter, and quite instantly they bonded.
Foxy, or Foxy Bear.
Foxy was a burly little man, with a gorgeous amber-red coat for days and a fierce love of his guardian:
one might say he perhaps was her keeper; vigilant and steady in his watch over her house and her heart.
They had rituals, routines and a love like few I've seen between the kept and the keeper, either human or animal.
For him, she was a marshmallow
For her, he was a chivalrous steward.
He was the kind of dog that made you feel chosen if he sat near you, that surely the good deed you had done earlier in the day had been seen,
had granted you an moment with a good dog.
He passed quite recently, and I found out about it today.
My heart is heavy, my eyes a bit swollen
not for Foxy, whose fluffy pantaloons surely dance on the other side of that
tear-inducing rainbow bridge,
but for my D, whose very soul is shattered.
I promise love will find you
and that beloved rascal will guide the right creature to your door
and your life
with every ounce of his might,
which still is
as it ever was.
I love you,