And I will consider the yellow dog Poem by Fran Lock

And Smart saw God concentric in his cat.
Smart's cat, artificing faith from cyclone
volition. There is no God in you, yellow
dog. Your breath is our daily quicksand;
you juggle your legs into an avid heap.
You are bent on death. There is no God
in you. You are imperfect and critterly.
I will consider you, for all of that. Today,
as you joust farewell to the park; the pack
in their garrison palsy, tails agog, and you,
cocking your head to cup Madam's strewn
bark, your nose like an antique brooch
in the sun. I will consider you, yellow dog,
as you twist in a rapt mechanical dream.
I will consider your coat, the color
of fenced gold; how you are your own
secular halo. I will consider your skull,
the narrow skull of a young gazelle
whose victory is leaping. And I will
consider your eyes, their hazel light
a gulp of fire, those firewater eyes,
holding now a numb depth down,
and milkier flickering monthly. I will
consider your youth, when we didn't
know if you would saunter or quake;
when we didn't know if you
would prove savvy or giddy or both.
It was both. Our frank amaze at your hardy
smarts! Our silly delight at each degree
of more-than-human knowing. I will
consider you, yellow dog, your pale
moods and your gazing; your fidgets
and your snoozes. There is no God in you,
the deep-time of a dog year is enough.
And lately you are wiser than all zero.
Dear dog, creaking like a haunted house,
I will consider you, from bucking young
'un to patient as settling porter; how you
held the pack when Fat Man was small
and a zoomy nuisance of wriggling. I will
consider your narrow self, aslant against
my chest in grief, in grieving, overwhelmed,
when you were the busy broom that swept
the pieces of me together. Yes, I will
consider the yellow dog, his bestowing
snout in the chill a.m.; his royal cheek
and his dances. A yellow dog comes only
once and is hisself: brilliant, final, and entire.