Daniel G. Snethen

Night of the Lunar Eclipse

by Daniel G. Snethen

I tried Dan, I really did.
But my time has come.
"It has been appointed
unto all men once to die."
The same holds true for dogs too.

I hear you calling my name, Dan.
And I almost bark because
I can hear the fear and sadness
in your heart as you cry out:
"Knightly, Knightly buddy, where are you."
I want to bark and let you know
but I am weak and ready to go.

You know the doctors
only gave me 3 months
to live—even after the amputation.
But we beat the odds and shared
over nineteen more months together.

And I thank you Dan
for all the things I got to do
during that time with my two closest friends.
You and Tori made my life
a wonderful thing to have.
I really didn't miss that leg
and you were patient with me.

You took me to Yellowstone
and tumbled me off my seat
when a grizzly bear walked
in front of the vehicle.

You took me to Forks, Washington—
where I dreamed of chasing
vampires and killing werewolves.

The voyage on the Pacific,
looking for whales terrified me.
I don't have sea legs and I
definitely am a landlubber tripod.
But your sister Karen let me lay
at her feet reassuring me
as you stood at the boat's edge
on a choppy ocean
looking for Moby or some other
leviathan surfacing the cresting sea.

You took me to Silver City, Idaho,
a mountain ghost town
and ate several slices
of their various famous pies.

I visited your major professor
who invited me in on equal terms.
I listened to you two, reminiscing
about days of yore chasing lizards,
banding birds and catching kangaroo rats.

You took me north of Allen
where I got to explore
the North American Pole of Greatest Inaccessibility.
You took me to places
few dogs have ever gone before.

And now we are at your ranch.
You have fence to fix
and expect me to follow along.
Even with just three legs,
chasing you is so much fun.

But, I'm not feeling well
and your ranch is my favorite place.
And I want to stay here, Dan.
I will miss you and Tori too
but most of all I know you love me
and I love you too. I want to bark.
I want you to hold me.
I want to spend more time with you.
Please tell Tori I love her
and not to cry too much
and tell her thank you
for taking me on walks,
I will miss her oh so much.

I have found my spot.
I know you are searching.
My heart is aching.
It wants to explode.

The sky is dark, and I sense
something is eating the moon.
I see a dozen stars streaking
across the darkling sky
blazing brightly before burning out.
And I identify with those dying stars.
My once glowing light is fading too.
And I whimper softly,
and I cry knowing I’ll never again
feel your thick fingers running
gently through my hair
or be able to share your bed
on a cold wintry night.

And I love you Dan, I truly do.
I truly do, I truly do and I love you.
And I love you and I cry.
But I can no longer stay on this plane.
The cancer has returned
and I hear the stars beckoning me homeward.
So I must leave, I know it's true.
Why else, would some celestial
entity be eating the moon?

Hobs

by Daniel G. Snethen

Hobs worked for little or nothing.
Content to sleep in the haymow.

with the nesting fowl

and a rat-tailed corpulent opossum.

All he required was hard work,

a hard day’s sweat

and a heaping plate of vittles.

When he milked the milch cows,
he'd pour some in a tin-pan
at the top of the wooden stairs

leading up to the haymow
and laughed at the opossum,

he'd named Ernie, pushing its toothy snout

between two old barn cats.

Once I actually caught Hobs

handfeeding that golden-eyed scourge

muskmelon from the garden.

And I thought they were strictly carnivorous.

Another time, I swear,

I found that crazy marsupial

snuggled up sleeping right next to Hobs.
They both had yellow eyes.

Mom never invited anyone in except relatives,

but she would let Hobs in the house to eat,

just like she did the dogs and her favorite cats.

I used to marvel at his xanthic stare

through the smoke of his William Penn
and wonder why his eyes were that color.

I asked mom why Hobs had amber eyes.

She'd just smile and say, "Does he?”
For some reason Mother liked him.

He cursed like the sailor he was,

took a pull now and then.
Stashed a bottle of barleycorn

in the calving shed. Dropped

the empties in the outhouse hole.

Mother was a religious

Scandinavian woman

and sheltered me from everything.

But not from Hobs.

Hobs worked hard.

He didn't cheat, steal, or lie.

Traits she admired.

He pulled pranks on Dad

which didn't amuse my father,
but they amused my mother

to no end and she would laugh

and laugh until she nearly got sick.

Hobs helped bury my father.

Built his coffin with Old World craftsmanship.
Stayed on, living in the haymow of the old barn.
Caring for the cats and a half dozen

opossums he'd adopted over the years.

One morning Mother found him dead,

a half-chewed-up cigar in his mouth

and his favorite pet dozing by his side.

The one with the amber eyes.

When we buried Hobs,

Ernie was there and alert.

I sensed understanding

in those lemon-drop eyes.

Through her tears,

Mother softly mumbled,

"Hobgoblins have yellow eyes.”