"I Missed You Today" by Peek.
© Please do not reproduce without artist's permission.
DOG YEARS
by Ryan Favata
They say it’s ten dog years per human year for the first two years,
then four dog years per human year for each year after.
This must mean for the first two years
catching a tennis ball and bringing it back feels like four days,
traversing a lake a month.
The squirrels must be chattering from their leaved pulpits
for three-quarters of the dog’s life,
and no wonder the anxiety when their masters leave,
with the workday being a season’s length.
No one ever says cat years—people have a cat around,
and then they don’t.
We say sick as a dog when bed-ridden, dog gone it instead of damnit,
and the other night, after a short argument, you said call off your dogs.
There were no dogs around, but if there were, they would have waited
patiently until the war ended, following me to the couch
where I spent the night—the longest night I could remember.
Ryan Favata is a recent graduate of Rollins College where he majored in English and minored in Creative Writing. He was the 2013 recipient of the Laura van den Berg Writing Scholarship. He currently resides in Winter Park, Florida. This is his first publication.
