He Who Must Be Announced

on days I come home for lunch to let

the schnoodles out, two rush the door

tails wagging, sniffing my shoes to check

for signs of where I’ve been for what

must seem like weeks to them in dog time

but one stays on the bed, ears perked,

staring me down in this regular routine

tail wagging, regarding me as a mere

servant of minimal importance who has

just strolled upon his highness by chance,

awaiting his expectation of me:

he likes to be announced

and so I throw my hands up high

overhead, Hallelujah-church-style,

tilt my head back in a trumpet call

shake my palms like tambourines

and in a voice of frenzied excitement

to an imaginary kingdom of commoners

peering up at us on the castle balcony

from outside the gated grounds below

as if I’ve just noticed him sitting there

with his self-soothing chew turtle I proclaim:

oh, look! it’s my Fitzie! Fitzie, come on!

(and he knows the difference between

my on pronounced like own and his

dad’s on pronounced like ahn

and he prefers mine said my certain way)

then down the little foam bed stairs

he regally trots to go outside to

gently lift a leg, this mighty

miniature aging soul dog of mine,

whose leg the rescue managed

to save primarily because of his

spirited will to live and rule, this royal brat

who forgets he was once a

stray on the streets looking for

love, this canine son of ours who

knows he found a throne

among his people