Photo & Poem: Calendar

Tufting the Corgi

Do I need a sweater? The evening
air has cooled thinner, the time on
the clock doesn’t match the light
outside. An orange dog jumps up,

not quite small enough for a lap,
fidgeting a spot close but looking
away, air-licking anxiety. Is he seven
now? A few soft barks, his toenails

sharp as he circles. Settling, his
eyes close to fingers combing
his back. It takes a moment to
remember my own age, to find

my spot on the downhill side of
this year. Dates have little meaning.
My calendar is a history of dogs,
their lives give order to the years.

A tiny growl as he jumps down
anxious to move, leaving tufts of
hair on my jeans. Shedding another
summer, marking a season in time.

Anna Blake at Infinity Farm
Horse Advocate, Author, Clinician, Equine Pro


  1. I can’t remember if the Vert Fourchette is open on Mondays. I will try to make a reservation for noon and let ya know.


    Sent from my iPhone


  2. My calendar is measured in dogs too. Smoky too is shedding and I’ve finally found a brush he likes, after 14 and 3/4 years, which helps. He used to scoot away when the brush came out. Weird old beast. I like my life measured by dogs.

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