All I have learned of death,
I learned from a dog
When I was 14.

His name was Nic
Like St. Nicolas
Since he came to us on Christmas.

He was either a runaway
Or a drop off.
Skinny, frostbitten ears
But polite and smart.

It took a year to learn him,
His tricks,
His ways.

He loved winter
And hunting rabbits.
If it is really true all dogs go to heaven,
He’s certainly hunting rabbits
As I write this.
(I don’t know what that says for Rabbit Heaven.)

It was snowing,
I had been given new snow-shoveling duties
Near the highway.

Nic saw me shoulder the shovel
And head out the driveway.
I can’t really blame him for thinking
About rabbits.

But the guy who was driving that
Low Pontiac,
And who didn’t stop
When I chased Nic,
Sliding on his back down the highway,
Him I still blame.

I got to Nic and picked him up in my arms
To bring him back into the house,
But it hurt him too bad.
He mouthed my hand
But did not bite me in his pain.
And so I lay him in the snow
Where he finished.
I kept the flakes from falling on his face.
It was the only thing I could do.