Dandelion walk

It's been a hard day.

My dog with his dandelion decorations.

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The dog is hoping for a walk. I can just tell, how he keeps 
following me, grinning, his eyes bright.
I’m in a terrible mood, a dark and stormy night mood
but I know the air will do me good. I loop his leash on the door
and make my apologies to the people I hurt 
before I go.

It’s a slow walk, without urgency. He decides when he wants 
to cross the street, waiting and glancing at me. His long fur
hangs in hanks over his bottom. I know the groomer
will be upset with me, but never say it. He deserves better.

We reach our favorite field—well, not really a field,
but the feel of one. He leads me, urgently, to the heart 
of cone-bearing trees, the floor inside needled
and brown. He’s found another dead squirrel—this one
no longer meat and bone, only a flat fur suit
still holding the shape of the squirrel’s shadow.

I tell him no and lead him away to the part of the field
where light bends against the grasses, against the unmown
green and floating dots of flowers. He pushes his head 
through the weeds, searching for another good smell
and ends up with the stars of dandelion seeds
decorating his dark fur.