She was the old one once. I buried her long ago, and now another runs and wags the bushy tuft of tail and stares demonic—the eye.
I drag my bones and stoop and lift. She dodges and shakes and will not relent. I wait and lift and throw (a ball or stick) and burn down her candle a bit until, the pastime secured from view, she finds a twig or pine cone or frog and pesters for a while, and comes and lies across the deck and probes the breeze for hinted wonders while I write or read or swing.
She does not wonder, will I will rise or stoop again? I wonder though–I know–the anguish she will feel one day when the demon eye is cast once more and with expectant glee, on some new toy that still has voice: not me, but in a stranger’s hand.