My Dog Paxton

My Dog Paxton Where cedars rust the road And maples mat the margin I walk with dogs. Pluto, Sasha and, old Paxton, Dead the last and he the lead Wherever we go by trails of scent. Bossy he, the border collie cross. Faces the wind that rustles the leaves Paces reflections that ripple the puddles Black and white, there be no cuddles For him, the alpha dog of sturdy jaw No scratching of his head, that’s his law. He will mouth the arm firmly of he who tries. He is a dead dog that never lies. Pluto and Sasha seek attention Look to me, to give direction Always begging for affection. Paxton has no demands but to leave him alone He offers me the friendship of a crystal gazing stone Where I can sometimes see myself. He always keeps his sovereignty, He never stoops to become my servant. The friendship and mystery of a full moon With a reserved intimacy And no exaggerations: He licks neither my knees nor hand And chooses which words to understand. He never invades my clothes with his snout Or rolls into bed like the others His confident eyes show a sweet caring for me A loyalty reserved only for a friend, In a silent life never demanding. When he died I planted a cedar tree over his bones And from that tree we start our walks Even now, where the cedars rust the road.