July 4th, 1981. Candles of a Roman ilk
unloaded from a chevy truck into the home her folks had built.
Patio was charcoals and extended fam in folding chairs,
safely arced around the yard to focus on the smoking flares.
Couple cousins, uncles, aunts. Mostly grown-ups; couple brats.
Baby Ruby's only two. She's too close to the jumping jacks.
Mommy scoops her to the house — buckles up the booster seat.
Rolls her to the storm door. Let her long for all the lunacy.
Telephone distracting Mom — Ruby wriggles out her strap.
Fingers push the plexi-glass; she's off into the sour patch.
Past the pyrotechnics undetected and invisible.
Woke the sleeping beagle, skipping toward the kidney swimming pool.
Off into the yawning blue; the splash would mum the rocket-ships.
Ruby's lungs were filling by the time her kin were cognizant.
Many sprung and sprinted down. All arrive belated, but
the beast she had earlier bestirred had been alert since waking up.
Canine let his gainer fly. Water top commotion grow;
Howling guests assumed the cloven hooves had come to do-si-do.
Frenzied and congested deck part to let the elders see
soggy beagle gently dragging Ruby in his yellow teeth.
Laid the tiny body in the sun before her Father‘s feet.
When she choked the liquid through her bluish lips he dropped his knee.
Healthy air had reconvened. Towel his shaking Ruby off.
EMT confirm the save. Everybody say, "Good dog!"