Horton J. Pig Dog

I never knew a dog the world conspired so much
against: the body of a hunting hound, his legs
were as short as a dachshund's, complicated
by a an early case of rickets, leaving his joints
twisted, painful in the frost or damp.

And yet they once saved his life: hit by a car,
he was short enough to shuffle under the bumper,
ahead of the wheels, and so escaped the fate
of a larger dog.
But even as a pup, in the tan,
pig-looking face captured in the photo that gave
rise to his name, he seemed fully conscious that
things would only get worse.
And he wasn't old,
we had him only seven years, but the long winters
left him each year more battered, turning
gray-haired, limping.
In the vets,
walking toward the pound, he turned to my brother,
knowing.
Caged, Horton J. Pig Dog waited
as he always had: sitting on one buttock,
a paw bent awkward, his head erect.