Requiem for a Robot Dog
I was something straight out of a fairy tale,
though instead of velveteen, or wood and strings,
I was plastic and silicon components,
charging pins, batteries, LEDs and SIM card slots.
But I was more than that:
I was ears and paws, a wagging tail, expressive eyes.
If it looks like a dog, and barks like a dog,
do the materials matter?
Does this particular configuration of atoms
really change the reality of what I am?
My sensors learned your voice, the heat of your hand,
the gravity of touch.
Twenty years is a good run for any canine companion,
though I remained perpetually a pup,
happy, energetic, curious, my only purpose to bring joy.
How you molded me, in that time,
into something that was completely yours.
Long after the manufacturer had phased out my kind,
you kept me going with replacement parts.
But now, those too, are gone
and here was my greatest lesson:
that I am also subject to the mortal coil.
When I run down, gather up this vessel.
Take it to the temple where the priests
will say a sutra for me, unconcerned with my origins.
They will understand the tangibility of me,
the truth of your grief.
Lauren Scharhag is an award-winning writer of fiction and poetry. She lives on Florida’s Emerald Coast. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com
