Dirty river dog

What's left to show for it:
Not the dampened stick fetched
from the edge of the current. Not
the thin beige hound galloping
down the waterway beside her, wet
leash slapping the banks as they
bound. Certainly not the rare bath
she had on Tuesday.

Only a slight dampness of the
belly, wet
white hairs and large brown paw
prints on the Honda's back seat,
driving her home for
the resting:

Nose tucked to brown-black tail,
the scent of the river wafting into her dreams


The cat sniffs her paws where she sleeps,
awakened by something he
does not know and
cannot name.