On Tenacity, or The Bergamasco

When Aurora passed

away, you swore that

this is it. Nothing but her

ashes on your desk. The

unpaid, final notice

from the Vet, who dogged

you like some Vito

from Sicily.

When the collections

agent arrived, he noted

your brand-new leash,

your Gotta Getta Gund,

the tins of puppy treats;

that even though your

sofa had been sold,

there was a pet

bed three feet wide—

no fur which needed

grooming, no bags to

tote her business,

and a stunted, knotty

branch that served as

stick.

I don’t really

expect her to fetch

it, you shrugged to

his dismay.

But you tell him

once she did,

in the penumbra

of the dawn, that

her mouth had opened

up, drool cascading

from her tongue like the

Fontana di Trevi,

licking you like a girl

does her gelato,

barking arrivederci

which Aurora never could,

too weak to lift her face

when the moment came,

blinking only once

but in amore, her paw in the

palm of your hand,

or mano nella mano—

your never letting go

these many years, for even the

mongrels attest to

celestial kingdoms,

to ghostly, ethereal kisses

from the sky.

Andreas Gripp

November 10, 2025

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