Sitting in the back seat with you in my arms,
you were a soft puppy with a small yellow ribbon;
I was an 8-year-old dressed in my all-pink outfit.
My mother snapped the first photo of us.
Unsure of each other at first, but soon that would change.
And we grew up together—
I dropped spaghetti, and you were there to catch even before
it hit the floor.
I wanted to name you marshmallow, but Snowball stuck.
Despite the fact that you hated getting your paws wet. And you despised snow.
You lead the way on our walks, sniffing every single blade of grass and tree and bush.
Distracted by all the smells, left your mark everywhere—you didn’t notice the three bears that one time.
You tugged on the leash, walked quickly, and walked up & down hills.
You walked along the swimming pool, licking the water.
Every morning, I showered you with good mornings and pets.
Hoping you didn’t pee before I could take you on a walk, but
you had already left a puddle under the piano.
Slowly the cancer found you. The rotten disease crept inside your body.
You walked slower, but you still loved your walks.
You turned away from puppies, only greeted older dogs.
Turned away from stairs because your body ached when you climbed up.
Slept more in your many beds sprawled around the house.
You collapsed onto the grass and stopped moving.
Sitting in the back seat with you in my arms,
I urged you to keep your eyes open. Your eyes barely opened. I broke into tears.
Sitting in the small hospital room,
you were a 12-year-old dog with your red Christmas bandana;
you laid on a soft, grey blanket and looked at us
for the last time.
I want more time, one more time to kiss you good morning, to take you on a walk, to hear you snore.
But it was time.