The First

This is a rough draft of a poem I was working on a few years ago, and never revised. I may get around to it someday.

Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Who stole my name
Long before I was born
The dog who named me
Red like the cello I played
Red like the hair of a long-ago girl

Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Irish like my ancestors
Irish and long-lived like my ancestors
An old dog, and patient
Outlived the disease
That withered in her strong and loyal heart

Heather was an old dog, and patient
Patient like my grandmother
A patient dog, veiny tumor on her leg
Patient with the cautious poking
Of my cringing finger
Daring to touch her age and imperfection

Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Old, like my grandmother, our Irish ancestors
Red like our front door, a cello, like long-ago hair
An old dog, and patient
Loyal and dignified
That I celebrated, and garlanded with flowers