The other day, I wrote a poem called Ghost in the Wiggles about Dempsey and his lingering spirit. As I reflected on Dempsey’s story, I realized Surley deserved his own tribute, too. Unlike Dempsey, Surley is my “squishy boy”—not because of his size, but because of his soft and tender spirit. He’s a dog who needs the world to be gentle, who thrives on a calm voice and a soft touch.
Living with a soft dog like Surley has been both a lesson and a gift. He’s taught me to breathe before the storm, to find patience when frustration blooms. This poem, Squishy Boy, is a love letter to his delicate heart. It is also about the journey we’ve shared to understand each other.
Squishy Boy
You are my squishy boy.
Not fat—just tender.
Your blonde hair, soft as your heart.
You are my squishy boy.
I must handle you with care—
a soft touch, a soft voice.
Sometimes, that’s not easy.
You are my squishy boy.
In the beginning, frustration bloomed.
The TV volume rose and fell—
a ghost in the remote.
I fought with it,
tried to keep the world gentle,
so the noise wouldn’t hurt you.
I wasn’t mad at you—
but you thought I was.
You are my squishy boy.
You sought safety,
curled up with him, not me.
It hurt. It still hurts.
I was only trying to protect you.
You are my squishy boy.
I learned early on—
sudden sounds could startle you,
prickle your gentle spirit.
I only wanted to protect you,
but you misunderstood my frustration.
You are my squishy boy.
You have taught me to temper my rage,
to breathe before the storm.
You are my squishy boy.
You must always carry something—
from first light to bedtime.
Your turtles, soft and worn,
are never far from your mouth.
They give you strength,
a comfort you can hold.
You bring them to bed when I let you,
tucking them close as we curl up,
safe and snug together.
You are my squishy boy.
You crave reassurance,
always near me, on me.
At first, it felt like too much, suffocating,
but now, it feels sweet.
I am your rock.
I am your safe space.
And you—
you are my squishy boy.
