When he was younger, he called himself
Cookie Monster and Mr. Snowman
and another name I can’t remember.
I should’ve written it down,
but I was convinced I’d never forget it.

Now he is Speckles.

He barks and licks
and sits and rolls over
and no longer answers
to the name we gave him moments
after he arrived in the world.

He is soft, and wriggly,
and it is not a far stretch from child to puppy.

He has always been more animal than child—
his rage a howl that shakes walls,
as he tries to rip off door frames
and flips tables and tears through a room 
with teeth bared, eyes wild.

He does not sleep in a bed anymore,
but has made himself a nest on the floor
with a chair cushion and a circle of blankets.
He refuses to wear pajamas.

Speckles barks
and wriggles his head under my hand.
I scratch behind his ears
and he licks my wrist.
No licking, I tell him, but I don’t really mean it.
I will take warm puppy licks
over the snarling, cornered rage
from earlier this morning.

After Speckles, he will be a baby panda 
and then after that, a cat,
and then he will be a kid, only a kid,
and we will not remember Speckles.