adventure dog

by James Roach

Adventure Dog
loved being in the warm sun,
finding the perfect spot in the grass
or on the weathered wood of the deck,
splayed out like a frog
to soak in every ray.
She was a champion
adjuster of blankets for naps
on the light green couch
we got from a friend,
her husband’s back
no longer able to handle
the softening cushions.
But to Sage, it was perfect.
Adventure Dog
got me out of bed
with impatient whines
on the days my anxiety tried its best to keep me
hidden from the outside world.
She recognized the universe of my panic,
when my constellations were out of shape.
She learned the definition of divorce
when he never came back.
Adventure Dog
cared that I got home safe
from a night of drinking,
was always at the door,
greeting me with her forgiving eyes
and wagging tail.
She never knew there were so many times
my tires almost lost their grip on the road.
She never judged me
for the vomiting,
the hangovers,
the regret.
Adventure dog
has been gone since April 7, 2016.
Her eyes said she knew why the vet
had come the day she fell asleep on my bed
for the last time.
I gave her steak as a last meal
and cried into her brindle fur
while the sedative took effect. 
Adventure Dog
was made eternal in ashes
that now sit in a red wooden box
with her leash and collar,
that probably still smell like her,
on a shelf by the only window in my room.
When the sun is out
or when candles are lit,
she is surrounded by light.
Adventure Dog
isn’t here to witness me sober,
my joy for this new life.
Her snores are no longer the lullaby
I hear as I fall asleep.
Sometimes,
between wakefulness and sleep,
between my life here and wherever her spirit may wander,
I can feel her weight.
It is the heaviness
that will never leave me.

James Roach (he/him) is most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? He dug up his midwest roots to live in Olympia, Wa., not too far from some sleepy volcanoes and beaches to write home about.