Nights like these (working title)

A tired evening and home late
again. The key sticks
as usual, then the sudden
open door, the slight scent
of damp dog and a welcoming
quiet, courtiously waiting
with the familiar slow wag,
the feathered tail. The quick lick,
not quite touching
and a sedate scampering
around my ankles

Later, sitting with Elgar
and discarded Plath,
memory pushes a wet nose
into my hand and rests
your head in my lap.
Running fingers through black fur
and tickling your brindled chest
I remember nights like this
when it was raining but you
demanded a walk anyway
and we ran for the joy of it all.

And after, I fetched a towel and
played you dry as you rolled
and wriggled like a young pup
in a summer meadow. Sometimes
I burrowed my hands into your damp fur
as you tried to lick my face dry,
Or we rested just like this,
Until it was time for a last drink
and bed.

Remembering,
I notice you are gone
and my hands and face
are wet again.