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When my old mixed hound died two weeks ago it was a sad day so I eulogized her in a poem. A cousin that was in WWII said he had more trouble when his tree dog died, than seeing the carnage of war, for years I thought that was silly. Now I am beginning to understand.
Daisy (1998-2010)
She laid in the yard and drug up old bones,
In sun or shade, but sometimes did roam.
The game trails, a millennia old she knew well.
On her pillow by the fire she’d snore,
Sprawled in comfort, her we adored
Running rabbits and deer in peaceful sleep.
She’d tackle a coyote, or track a deer,
With a gruff bark she knew no fear,
Yet she tried to nurse starved kittens.
When she lay dying she’d raise her head,
Fighting to stay and not to be dead,
I’d pat her head and tell her to go.
But a dog fights death, It’s hard for them to leave,
Unbounded loyalty to man, makes them to life cleave,
There is no whistle for “go away”
So I have memories of treeing squirrels,
With rifle and dog in a bright new world,
In spirit this never ends.
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