Caring for the Needy

By Gayle Sliva

At first they communicated their needs through
loud bursts of vocal discontent.
We shamed them for frightening us, made a rule
called, “No barking.”
They noted that we were angrier, less
predictable when woken.
“Let sleeping humans lie,” they said, but still
they had needs, so they
attempted to soften the impact of waking us by
shaking their collars, making their nametags
clink up against their vaccination tags,
but that too sent our hearts into sudden shock
and we removed their collars permanently.
“No collar shaking,” we proclaimed.
Now the large one has chosen the method of lip
smacking, pretending to relish the flavor
of water, but really just another
effort to wake us. The little one has resorted to
jumping on and off the bed, sometimes lying
across our faces to suffocate us.
The middle one retches, knowing the thought of
scrubbing vomit from the carpet
sends me flying from the bed ritually each night,
crashing around the bend to open the back door
where dogs can meet their needs
and perhaps a striped cat or two, and I will
diligently stay up another night
bathing fur in vinegar, burning vanilla candles,
hating at night what I loved so easily during the day.