Juno, the Rescue Dog

An old tennis ball near your resting head waits patiently for a sign, biding its time. Sunday’s sleek playground rocket is Monday's slumbering sentry dog-tired from yesterday’s triumphs. Rescue dogs rummaged Trade Center rubble undaunted by danger Nine-Eleven just another reason to please, and a pound's little penitent cramped in a Salt Lake City kennelbox waited patiently for a sign, biding her time to save a family, to be our unsuspecting guide, a seeing eye through which we see life anew: We taught you to sit and obey our commands; you teach us the secrets of dog-grace, to judge not, and how you would lay down your life without first having to find your inner dog. We filled your bowl with tapwater to lap, and in turn you pour out your undying loyalty. We gave you a mat in the corner, and for that you ask for no greater privilege than to guard our house with your own precious life, shark-eyed friend. They say Dogwood takes seven years to bloom. You would have waited that long for us wouldn’t you, our floppy-eared pal? Go get the ball, girl! Time to play!