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I wrote this after Sammie died. This kinda flowed out of me. I wrote this with no thought, it was just there. I NEVER write in a
poetic form, but for some reason this came out. I don't know if it's good, but it felt good to express some of my feelings.
Years later, I still cannot edit this. The tears start flowing, and I can't see to type any more. I guess it will have to stay in the format I originally put it down in, because I can't stand to ready it.
TIPPY, TIPPY PAWS
No more tippy, tippy paws, as you wander down the hall, checking on us all. My ears are tuned, and I do wish to hear tippy, tippy paws coming down the hall. No music could be sweeter than the sound of your paws tipping down the hall.
No more scratching at the door, to be let out--and then scratching again to be let in--to roam the house again. No more waking me in the night, as your nose touches my hand, to be certain all is well. No more lifting you on the bed, so you can lay your head on my pillow, no more setting you off the bed, because you had aged and you weren’t quite so agile.
No more tippy, tippy paws to rouse me from my sleep. Those tippy, tippy paws said you were on your feet, walking your
beat and looking after us all.
Tippy, tippy paws—in the night, and in my heart. My heart will always long for those tippy tippy paws. I miss the sweet sound of your feet making a tippy, tippy paws beat.
No more wads of hair to fuss about, and wonder how the hair got there...and under there...and over there...heck, your hair is everywhere. I see the hair still there, and it makes me long to see you laying there...and under there...and over there...or anywhere...the sofa, the hallway, the kitchen floor, the doorway, the walkway, or lounging in the sun.
.
No more raised eyebrows, as you listen while I talk. I said I wanted to video you, as you showed me that you heard. Now, I cannot record you, ‘cause the eyebrows are now so still. No more setting on the floor, to talk and to play—no more kisses to let me know you were hearing what I say.
No more lying in the middle of the room, or tripping me as I turn. I often said, “Excuse me”, as I tried to go around. I'd give my soul, to have you lying there to trip me again when I walk around the bend.
No more head coming to lay upon my lap, no more interruptions as I do my work. No more tippy paws announcing you're on your way to visit me at my desk—to ask me to have a seat on the floor so we could speak.
No more balls dropping on my head while I float in the pool, no more looking up to see your eyes begging me to throw the ball yet again. No more diving in to retrieve a ball, only to have it thrown again.
I wish I had not said, “That's enough ball, Sammie. Go lay down” quite as often as I did. I regret the sad looks you gave me, each and every time I did. It would not have hurt me to throw that ball again.
No more tippy, tippy paws, to announce that a nose was soon to open a door. You opened the door so you could drop in--just to say you care. You always thought the only reason I sat on the pot was so that I could scratch your special spot.
No more gentle paws, scratching on my lap. Those paws that quietly said, “Popcorn would make you a good chap”. It no longer aggravates to think about sharing what is on my plate. It seems such a big mistake that I ate steak, but was cruel and made you nibble on your kibble. I laugh when I think of how you would bounce for just an ounce of my meat. You wanted my limes, and thought it was a crime that they were too sour for you dine on them. You loved me, and you did not berate, when I was late to put your dinner on your plate. No more gentle lady, delicately taking the offered treat.
No more tippy, tippy paws (along with a nose) that interrupts my piano song. With a nudge of the nose you dropped the ball into my lap, picked it up, dropped it into my lap until I looked into those eyes. Those eyes always said, “Playing ball would be much more fun than playing a piano song.”
No more will you come to me when I am sad. I cannot cry in your fur, when I feel so very bad. I thank you for each time that you came and sat by my side--for letting me hold you while I cried. I thank you for kissing my tears away every time you were by my side. As I cry for you, I long to hear tippy, tippy paws coming down the hall, to let me know that you're coming to my side.
No more unconditional love—but wait! I feel your love for me, as you wait for me to again be your playmate. I pray that you’re waiting there for me, as I pass through the gates.
So many “no mores”, yet there are so many memories and lessons learned that I cannot regret. I cannot regret the love I received from you, the love you so freely gave...so much love that I cannot forget. So many memories from all the years—every memory brings a smile or tears—or fears that I failed to acknowledge all that you gave, or failed to say that you were a dear.
Tears continue to flow, and I can’t help but show that it feels as if all my tomorrows will be full of woe. I will not always be sad. In time, I will be glad for the time that we had. Although I fear
my heart may break, I cannot regret (or negate) the love you brought—the lessons you taught—or the joy you had in every ball you caught. I knew you were going when the call “ball” no
longer made your ears perk, and your eyes glow.
I am angry, and it makes me very mad. Why couldn’t you have passed when you were happy, not so very sad. No more graceful leaps and bounds. The thought of how your looks said, “What the hell” every time you fell (as your legs began to fail) are so hurtful. Sorrow runs deep, but memories of you I keep for all the tomorrows that I may meet. I thank you for kissing my tears away while I wept for your upcoming death. You showed your love for us, even as you went.
Tippy, tippy paws, how the thought claws at my heart. Know I love you, and I do miss, the sound of your tippy, tippy paws, walking down the hall.
Taken at Kapiolani Community College. Probably the prettiest college campus in the UH system on Oahu. (I haven't been to the neighbor island campuses, so can't compare). The instructions on the box say you can write a poem and leave it in the box. It will be laminated and put up on the tree.
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Taken in the studio, one softbox from the side, on a black table and that is it. Removed some reflections.