Toby is trotting on ahead,
the click of his paw nails audible
only to the living in their dreams.
Overhead a playtime of cherubic puppies
gather into June clouds and Christmas snowballs.
They hail him: “We are the welcomers.
Soon you too will be a welcomer.”
Toby trots on between the high gates
into the everlasting mystery.
He is not awed by the entry,
for he is planning his welcome
to the dear beings whose hands
are baskets of tenderness.
He will do his little four-footed dance of delight,
his tour jeté of joy.
He will speak to them in their own language.
but free of pain and perplexities.
All the loveliest smells of life
are in the air; and the gray grass
is an unimaginable green.
Already his throat and tongue are forcing
his first human syllable: love.
“And I shall teach them to bark,” thinks Toby,
“Alpha and omega! Hanya haramita! Tao! Tao! Tao!”