The dverse prompt is in the form of a letter, addressed to someone in particular from a particular place. The only thing I could think of was a few words of heartfelt sympathy for Finbar who has had the trauma of a minor operation and having to wear an awful plastic lampshade.
I rarely write letters, so little to say, and what there is interests no one but me. I never write to you, friend, because you can’t read, and even in the spoken words there is room for doubt. But I want you to know that the pain will go, like the soreness of the stitches, and that the indignity of the lampshade cone, the leaving you with unknowns and the drugged sleep were part of the pattern of life that is never smooth but necessary and to be borne stoically, with canine fortitude.
Lying here with your long nose resting on my hand, so you know I can touch you despite the cone, I feel your incomprehension and your trust, that I at least know the why of it all. I wonder how many human beings would accept the way you do, simply because I say you must? No questions, no sulks and angry outbursts, you lay your long nose on my hand because I am me, and you are you, and neither of us hurts the other. Parole de chien.
The road home is short,
each tree a cause of gladness.
The road bends, we see
pale smoke stream from the chimney—
the fire is still alight.