Doris, After

My dog has been spayed and now has a seemingly new personality. I wonder if it'll wear off as she heals. 

She lets us wrap her now—  

a blanket over her back  

like a small, warm hush.  

She stays still. Doesn't grumble.  

No twitch of tail. No side-eye sigh.  

Just silence.  

Before, she was spring—  

all teeth and velvet refusal,  

the blanket flung off like insult.  

A queen in fur, unbothered.  

Now, she melts into it.  

Heavy with sleep,  

stitched at the belly,  

quieted.  

We whisper her name—Doris—  

like something holy.  

She lifts one ear, half-hearted.  

Lets it fall again.  

The world is slower now.  

Even the stairs wait for her.  

And we, too, wait,  

watching the rise of her breath  

beneath the soft fabric  

she used to hate.  

Outside, the usual birds  

go on with it.  

But in here,  

she is still.  

And we are different,  

blanket-bearers,  

gentle,  

invited  

in.