He is a Wooly Mammoth of a dog-man.

My basset hound, My Elvis.

He bulges everywhere.

He oozes everything.

Every follicle, every pore,

every Hush Puppy red rimmed blood shot

stare down happy-sad expression.

His outline - so not a sliver,        catches a sliver.

First light.

His scent is all night rain and fresh cut grass at daybreak.

Elvis is mostly slow and steady, like his shape.

Except when his 65 pound nose explodes awake!!

Like he’s suddenly giving birth!!

Like he’s standing guard for a long and lazy pregnancy!!

That massive nose drags the rest of him along like Raggedy Andy bobbing along behind.

Mammoth Man inches along    creaky old-soul kitchen floors,

Scent hound, mining for gold.   Last night’s pot roast.

Foot-long velvet ears drag dust bunnies on the Oregon Trail of our 113 year old farmhouse.

Elvis wobbles and rambles

like a cowboy in a spaghetti western.

His Elizabethan neck collar       

flops side to side like a Brahma bull.

Backlit by warpy western windows,  

he’s a shadow puppet.

He’s expanding to fill the room!

The Elephant Man…    In a good way!

He’s huge and he’s a dwarf.

His warpy 3-foot spine rides long and low over 2 inch legs.

Bulging double layered ankles

were nick-named Skankles

by my other baby, my Katie.

And all of Elvis’ life and love and good intentions

bears down on those split-open cowboy boots.

Splayed out toenails are black.             

No, some are white.

And some, like the rest of him, are both.

Wooly Mammoth Man fills up all the empty space in the creaky old farmhouse and all of us in it.

Even the cat.

Even though she acts indifferent.

And the ground squirrels nesting under the floorboards.

And the quail family commuting through the yard, looking for meaningful work.

And the hummingbird buzzing around the creaky old porch

that’s sagging down in places like some spaghetti western.