The other day, Misha surprised me with a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers that he picked for me while frolicking in a meadow. He shyly nudged them toward me with his whisker'd muzzle, then raised his head and looked off into the distance. I knew that he, sensitive soul, was mourning the wildflowers' impending death, a death he'd set in motion when overwhelmed by beauty's profusion. Softly, he began to recite.
"O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you, and the coffins all of you, O death."
I kissed his cheek, put the flowers in a vase, and recalled Misha from Whitman's elegy with a fresh bowl of kibble.
