Red Head Of The Rockies

She came from the barrios

of the city Mile High,

In the foothills of the Rockies

where the snowcaps touch the sky.

 

Her hair was thick and crimson red,

Her pink tongue spotted black,

When the college kid first saw her,

There was no turning back.

 

The shelter dubbed her Sabrina,

A temporary name,

But Michael called her Moosica,

Which means "music" in Spain.

 

Moosie lived the good life

on Federal Boulevard,

She and Sopha even had

a ramp down to the yard.

 

Moose never backed down from a fight, 

She was an alpha queen,

So dog parks really weren't her thing, 

Could've been an ugly scene.

 

She scaled St. Mary's Glacier,

Swam in Lac Courte Oreilles,

Pranced alongside ski tracks

that criss-cross Cedar Lake.

 

Michael and Charlie would double date

with Sopha and The Moose,

They'd take them to a frolf course,

And there they'd cut 'em loose.

 

Without a leash the dogs ran free,

Exploring in the trees,

A half hour later, the girls returned,

The chow and the bernese.

 

Fed Boulevard, the Dupont Arms,

Toledo and QE,

At that last one Moose lived four-plus years

with Momma Cuan and me.

 

Breakfast and dinner, her favorite things,

But first a game we'd play,

We'd hug and smooch, I'd shake her paw,

Then dump the Canidae.

 

She'd gobble it down, two minutes flat,

But still she wanted more,

Her next stop was the kitchen

where she'd sniff along the floor.

 

When Momma Cuan sat down to eat

Moose parked under the table,

She knew her Mame would feed her more,

It happened without fail.

 

On walks she'd drop into a squat,

Her Larry Craig wide stance,

She'd turn her head and look around

to catch a fleeting glance.

 

Moose liked her privacy, I guess,

But still I had to laugh,

I'd then scoop up her "calling card"

and continue on the path.

 

She'd climb the snow banks for a deuce,

The "snow man" rolled on down,

She admired her art work from above,

Then descended to the ground.

 

I'd sometimes walk her 'round the Isles,

Sometimes she'd walk me,

Those little legs kept going strong,

Moose had such energy.

 

She'd camp under our piano,

Sleep on the tile floor,

When I'd shout, "Who's that?"

She'd bark and scamper to the door.

 

The QE Meadow was her turf,

Her kingdom, her domain,

The rabbits ran for cover,

Squirrels and chipmunks did the same.

 

In August Moosie left this world,

A month short of her twelfth,

Kissed her goodbye, went to my car,

And cried all by myself.

 

Will Moose make it past the Pearly Gates

to heaven? I don't know.

But if St. Pete won't let dogs in,

I'd just as soon not go.

 

 

Happy birthday, Moosie.

Love, Grandpa Johnny

 

September 11, 2015