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Honor the Journey Substack
Honor the Journey Substack
A Dog’s Life?
Fiction, Poetry and Reflective Writing

A Dog’s Life?

Barbara Swander Miller's avatar
Barbara Swander Miller
Sep 06, 2024
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A Dog’s Life?
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Cross-post from Honor the Journey Substack
Barbara is a fantastic poet and I'm excited to keep a close eye on her work in the medium as I already knew she was an extraordinary fiction writer. We're almost there on finishing up with production on her debut novel! Very excited! -
David Swindle 🟦

Shooting over the deck rail

across the lily bed

lightning fast

straight to the corner 

where the sage and yarrow

bloom, Eliza darts

through my space. She’s

on the chase!

It’s a rabbit!

a small rabbit sitting in the grass
Photo by Jack Bulmer on Unsplash

Probably the one

that’s been eating my

carrots

and cutting my flowers.

The cunning creature needs

no siren. It bounds 

out of reach, 

around the mint bed and

under the gate,

into the yard.

In pursuit, Eliza

noses open the sliding gate

too slowly.

The speedy prey

leaves her

whimpering and shaking.

She tears back into the garden.

Whipping the wooden

fence, her fluffy white tail 

bangs out a warning

to rabbits who

dare to invade

her space.

I get up from my work,

and peek 

through the gap.

There, still as a foil-wrapped

chocolate rabbit, 

it tempts and taunts.

I clap, but it is frozen,

unblinking,

watching.

It’s waiting, waiting.

selective focus photography of brown rabbit
Photo by Gary Bendig on Unsplash

Eliza has darted to the

sunflower patch

along the fence, sniffing

and scurrying.

Her tongue lolls

and her sides heave.

I go to the garden, 

looking for a nest,

but I hear 

a whimper.

Eliza is in

the yard

with something dark

in her mouth.

Oh! No!

It’s a baby bunny!

gray rabbit on green grass during daytime
Photo by Jack Bulmer on Unsplash

I clap and shout, 

running toward Eliza.

She drops it and darts 

straight toward the deck.

Her nose 

disappears into

the hosta leaves.

I call her. But

she dodges my

reach,

then races

through the gate

to the lilies, sniffing,

sniffing.

I run to the house. 

“Can you help me catch Eliza?” 

I plead.

My husband rouses 

from his leather chair.

“There’s a nest 

under the deck,”

he announces.

“But we can’t let her 

kill the baby.”

He searches

the grass

under the hammock

and beneath the pines.

But the baby 

has disappeared. 

“It couldn’t move

far if it’d been

very injured,”

he announces.

I believe him.

Leashed now, 

and back in the house,

Eliza pants. Her

tongue is

longer than when 

she jumped the fence

and ran away 

on the Fourth.

selective focus photography of brown dog
Photo by Wai Siew on Unsplash

“Did it remind her of

her babies?” I wonder

aloud. “Maybe she just wanted 

to play.”

Or be a mama, 

instead 

of a discarded 

cash machine,

I think.

“Or maybe,” he

suggests, 

“she was 

just being a

dog.”

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