You groan in your bed
shifting to find a comfortable spot.
You struggle to rise on those
sore back legs.
You fall over avoiding
chair legs.
You ignore your dinner
as if eating is too much effort.
You don’t hear people when
they come to the door.
You go out to toilet,
but poop as you come in.
You strain to see me
through clouded eyes.
But you wag your tail
when you recognise me
and bring me a toy to tug.
You follow me whenever I move,
just wanting to be with me.
You make me stare down
hard decisions.
dear old dog.
.
.
.
2015 is not my favourite year.
Dusty Dog’s 17th birthday is in August, but I don’t think he’s going to see it.
Shawn L. Bird 