Dreams of my Dogs

I dreamed last night of impossible births,
Grey feathers shifting to fur,
chirps dancing beneath a strange oak table.

My two, Sig & Doof, lying there,
old eyes glistening with the weight of years,
straining to give me their young,
yet only strange abominations spilled out.

I whispered to them, just one,
a perfect small Doof, a tiny Sig,
but the room knew better,
and it shuddered with pity
as my husband’s hands, gentle,
gathered tiny creatures, monstrously malformed,
parts of dreams that sour in daylight.

“Did you end them?” I gasped,
dread tangled tight,
his eyes met mine, steady,
“You’d have done the same,” he said,
and I nodded, a silent ache,
because truth sometimes wears the cloak
of necessity.

There was a third dog, a stranger, grey and fleeting,
he alone bore bright new life.
The pup chirped its tiny claim at the leg of the table.
I watched it, untouched,
my heart tied to the ones who would not be.

And when I asked my husband why,
how males could bear the weight of birth,
he answered with a reason lost to waking,
but I agreed,
because in dreams,
even logic is tender.

I woke to the soft thump
of tails and gentle snoring,
no puppies, just Doof & Sig,
aging, but here,
and I felt the sting of love’s cruel wish,
to want what time cannot give,
to cradle a past
that never breathes again.