The Taupe Beast

She moves silently,
circling the table like a shadow with purpose.
A soft bump against your leg—
a nudge, a reminder—
I’m here. Don’t forget me.

Her eyebrows do the heavy lifting,
arching, furrowing,
communicating what words never could.
You feel them soften you,
like water wearing down stone.
She knows.
She always knows.

Around her, the world bends,
chairs shift, hands lower,
crumbs and morsels delivered
to her invisible throne.

At night, she becomes the sentinel.
Room to room, bed to bed,
she checks on us all,
her quiet assurance like a lullaby.
Only when the house settles,
when the lights dim,
does she rest.

Ginny,
the Taupe Beast, the landshark, the queen.
Not just a dog,
but the rhythm of our home.