Walking the Dog on the Night before He Is to Be Fixed
As far as I can tell, old chum, neuter
is neither here nor there, but in-between,
a state that has a certain charm, like pewter,
prized for durability, if not for sheen.
Tomorrow night you’ll stroll in wary fashion
after the sleep, the knife, the careful scars
that promise to put an end to wayward passion
not to mention long-imagined wars
for territorial rights, a lady’s paw.
Tomorrow the thermostat is set on cold
in calculated stern hormonal law.
What I know of this is what I’m told:
All veterans must come before the vet
on calendars either canine or lunar.
All lose that first fine frenzy to beget
whether it be later, friend, or sooner.
I toast us both then, Franz, in our decrease,
though there’s no way for you to know that I’m
also tugging manfully at the leash,
waiting doggedly for the nick of time.
"Walking the Dog on the Night before He Is to Be Fixed" by John Stone