Old dog, old friend,

how many years

have gone, since first

we cuddled you?

Or romped through trees,

to roll on grass or

chased the children

through the snow.

But years have fled,

leaving you old,

with joints that ache

and muzzle gray.

Yet still you stagger

to your feet

to welcome those

you love so well.

And we return this

love to you,

who has been constant

through the years,

and dread the thought

that soon our lives

will be the poorer

when you go.

 

David Garlick, Victoria, 1988