therapy dog

I took my very good friend Jazz for a walk about this time last winter. Jazz, 11, is a big ol' Golden and a certified therapy dog. My dog Gracey had died that week, and Jazz's person thoughtfully sent him across the street to keep me company. He's genuinely great at what he does, perceiving need in others. If he spots your need, he'll promptly park his 70 lb butt squarely on your foot. It's strangely like a big hug. "Don't move. I'm here. I got you." After some therapeutic foot-warming, Jazz took me out for a walk in an icy twilight lit by colored lights. Christmas in Boulder, and garbage cans over-flowed with rejected this-and-thats. The following wrote itself right after we got home.

I saw Jazz's big head buried in a snowbank.  
Though most folks wouldn't, I hollered, "Hey, Jazzy!  Watcha got there?".  
Though most dogs wouldn't, Jazz pulled his head out of the snowbank.
He grinned at me in dazzling technicolor. I stared at him in disbelief. 
"Awww, Jazz.  I'm really sorry, but I don't think you should keep it. *Sigh* I think you gotta leave it."
He stared at me in utter disbelief. *Sigh* "For real? I gotta leave it?".
"For real, dude. You gotta leave it."
Slowly he opened his jaws, for lo, the frosting was very deep, 
And the jujubes of many colors all stucketh to his teeth.  
The house's gingery gable toppled over in the snow, 
And eight tiny reindeer slid somewhere down below.
"What a good boy!" I exclaimed as we passed on out of sight.
Jazz burped, "Er, I swallowed the chimbley by mistake... just one teensy bite."