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      September 7, 2020Fur BabyJennifer Perrine

      How I disdain that phrase
      because I have no children,
       
      only a sprawling yard
      and a penchant for naming.
       
      I called my first dog Frank,
      hoping she would be forthright.
       
      I have loved too many
      closets, too many half-truths
       
      that were also half-lies.
      Frank refused such legacies,
       
      possessed no genes of mine
      to muster her best defense
       
      against, though I suppose
      she had some inheritance
       
      of her own to struggle
      with. Frank, so far as I know,
       
      never considered me
      a parent, never measured
       
      me unfit, though I fumed
      when she ate my papers, locked
       
      her in her crate for hours
      after she chewed through that couch
       
      in the rented house. Ten
      years on, when my partner left,
       
      Frank’s warmth punctuated
      the bed, a comma behind
       
      my knees, an em dash when
      her greyhound legs stretched. I bore
       
      accidental scratches,
      holes her claws snagged in my clothes.
       
      When I woke, we would walk
      to the park, tots with no fear
       
      flocking to her white beard.
      When passersby asked her name,
       
      I never felt the need
      to correct when they assumed
       
      our genders, dubbed both me
      and Frank him. Still, I saddled
       
      her with a moniker
      that may not have matched her sense
       
      of self, if she had one.
      She may have longed for a word
       
      more apt, more feminine,
      more evocative of sly
       
      delights, though her earnest
      glee seemed unmistakable
       
      when, as she paddled far
      from shore, I summoned her back,
       
      the splash of her long limbs
      a graceless mess. It’s not true
       
      to say I wanted no
      children, just fewer chances
       
      at sorrow. Little did
      I know what honesty Frank
       
      would mother in me, months
      I could not feed her enough
       
      to keep up with the rush
      of steroids prescribed to shrink
       
      the mass in her brain. Starved,
      she swallowed a whole bottle
       
      of fish oil and shat grease
      in the backseat all the way
       
      to the hospital. Well
      enough again the next day,
       
      her fur retained that scent
      for a year. She learned to stay
       
      as I administered
      injections, nursed her so long
       
      I forgot she was still
      sick. When it was time, I can’t
       
      be sure if she heard me
      as I soothed her, hushed my hands
       
      on her black ears, her flank,
      cradled her, whispered Frank, Frank.

      from #68 - Summer 2020

      Jennifer Perrine

      “A writing teacher once told me that no one wants to read poems about pets, and I repeated that misguided advice for many years after I became I teacher myself. If I could go back and amend all those conversations, I would say that the world needs more poems about love, no matter what form that takes. I would also say, ‘Who cares whether someone else wants to read it? If you care about it, write it.’”