The Thing That Replaced the Dog

The Thing That Replaced the Dog

The dog came back different after the woods.
Same breed, same collar, same tags.
Same bark, same appetite, same bed.
But the eyes had changed from brown to amber.

Children notice what adults dismiss
and I was nine and I noticed
the way it watched my parents
like it was studying a new species.

It stopped chasing squirrels.
It stopped chewing shoes.
It sat in the corner and observed
with an attention that was not canine.

I found the old dog in the ravine
three days after the replacement arrived.
Same breed, same collar, no tags.
Dead for longer than three days.

The thing in our house had been ready
before our dog went into those woods,
wearing the right fur, the right weight,
pre-loaded with the right responses.

My parents said I was confused.
That dogs change as they age.
That amber is a shade of brown.
And the ravine dog was a stray.

I am forty-three years old now
and the thing is still alive
in the house where I grew up
where my parents still set out its bowl.

It has not aged in thirty-four years.
Same amber eyes, same focused stare.
Still sitting in the corner.
Still watching.

And my parents,
who are eighty now,
do not see anything wrong
because the thing that replaced the dog
replaced something in them too.

And I am the only one
who remembers
what any of us
used to be.