Monday, November 19, 2012

My Pack


Now, little Mimi fades into her doggie night -
and the house is quiet. She isn't leaping eagerly,
ready for the next walk, or hunting out socks
to hide in her bed; the noisy lapping at the water bowl

has stopped. From his seat in the garden, Ziggy, still
the leader of the pack, surveys the scene with all
his regal hauteur, and the memories come rushing back
of pell-mell walks with balls and throwing sticks

and endlessly rustling poo bags there to catch
the droppings of the day. Oh, they were fun these two:
a lively chaos of canine intelligence devoted
to their humans, and protective of their patch.

But now the house is quiet. The dog-beds lie empty,
the leads hang forlornly on the door. But if you listen
carefully, the echo of four pattering feet doubled lingers
in the air, and a soft wet tongue might push into your ear.

I never owned a dog, but for these two, I was part
of the pack. I'm running with them still.


14 November 2012

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