National Poetry Writing Month, a poem a day, April 2013
Day 13
Harry, a resident for about ten years at the dogs' home where I work part time, died earlier this year. This is his story, as far as we know it.
He walked
into our lives one morning,
stood in the
lane looking at the gate.
We didn’t do
much, we stared back,
he was
clearly prepared to wait.
When he
appeared in the yard,
his eyes
softly asking: ‘Please, may I stay?’
we found
him a bed and left him be;
we didn’t
have the steel to send him away.
We pondered
and wondered but we knew what we’d do.
We let him
sleep all day and have a good rest,
we fed him
and found him some friends;
and from
then on … we all just did our best.
He lived in peace for more than ten years.
He had his
own pals, with fields for a run;
plenty of
good food in his bowl twice a day;
and a lovely
pen where he could lie in the sun.
He ran up
the fields every day with joy in his heart.
Then came
the morning that dawned very cold -
we knew he
was slowing down and facing the end -
he had
started to look, really, quite old.
He ran first
thing, happy to be free,
up the hill
on the hard frozen ground;
and it was
at the top that he fell down …
among his
friends - they were all around.
He fought
for his breath and it looked like the end.
Brown eyes
watched us from a black hairy face.
We sat and
talked to him in quiet voices,
this dog who
knew what he wanted and found his place.
The vet was
called to help him out,
and we
carried him down and let him lie.
But he left
us as he came - on his own terms;
… this
beautiful dog made his own time to die.
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