My dog poem...

I had the first ten lines the other night. I didn't know it would turn into a death poem, impending death, yes, but death itself was not my intention. I suspect it is pure maudlin; I'm incapable of any sort of intellectual perspective at the moment. And why? Writing for me, for some reason is a respite, however temporary.
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My Dog is the Bravest Soul I've Met

I wake in the dark scrambling
to hear her breath--
the soft snore or elongated
sighs telling me she is still
sharing life
with me. Sleep equals peace
in my human equation. Sign
language, made important
by deaf ears, broken ear drums
and polyps blocking any hope
of a cure is our new trick.
Her world spinning
a tilt so grave four paws
can't navigate gravity
with any surety. A sneeze
or head shake sends her tumbling
to the floor onto her side, ribs
absorbing the surprise and pain
without a cry. Her tail incapable
of lies, always swiping a wag
with a passing touch or simple
eye contact speaks of love, love,
love. And her tail never lied
when tucked between her back legs
by distress, confused by a world
become silent, spinning, painful
with no respite but sleep. But always
there was the love, and oh, so bravely
she guided me through her death.