Puppy Poem for Dog Lovers

   

Puppy Poem

This morning, I woke up & kissed my Dad's head.
I peed on the carpet, then went back to bed.
"The life of a puppy, oh my, this is great."
Then I thought about breakfast, "I hope it's not late."

Mom took me outside, we walked for a while.
This never fails to make Mama smile.
I sniffed of everything, that we did pass, I ate
something weird - it gave me gas.

I'm sure God loves me, I know that is true.
He gave me so many great things to chew.
Rugs, plants or rocks, I really don't care.
What I truly like best, is Dad's underwear.

That obedience book, was sort of yummy.
Though it didn't sit well on my poor puppy tummy.
I threw up a bit, but that was all right.
When Mom found it later, I was well out of sight.

I made streamers of T.P, while running at full speed.
Mom is pretty quick - but I was still in the lead.
I flew under the bed, and Mom flew past,
She stopped-shook her head, and breathed, "You're too fast."

Mama later phoned Daddy, and said, "it was frightening!"
That afternoon, she was sure I'd pooped lightening.
She'd sat at the computer, while I chewed the cord,
She thought I was mad, but I was just bored.

When Mama had enough, couldn't take anymore,
That's when my tushy got shoved out the door.
I love it inside, but outside is best.
Lay in the cool grass, and had a good rest.

That didn't last long, there was too much to do -
Can't quite remember where I hid Daddy's shoe.
I found an old bone, and scratched at a flea,
I watched the dumb squirrels as they jumped in a tree.

I barked at the kids, when they got off the bus.
I can't figure out why this makes Mama fuss.
I barked at the neighbor, I barked at the wind.
I barked and I barked, till Mom yelled,"Come in!"

The sun dipped in the west - soon Daddy would come!
I sure love my Daddy: We always have fun.
I barked at my Daddy, then turned on my charms,
I woo-wooed,"Hello", then jumped in his arms.
 
Sitting under the table - it's so hard to wait.
Daddy slipped me a goodie right off his plate.
I raced through the house, and scattered my toys,
Ricocheted off the furniture, and made lots of noise.

Mom found her purse - the one I abused.
Daddy let loose a chuckle. Mom asked "Amused?"
I cowered down low, I must be in trouble.
Dad said, "Wasn't my boy, it must be his double!"

Mom turned off the TV, and said, "Time for bed."
Dad said "Let's go boy," and patted my head.
I got in my spot, between Mom and Dad,
I thought 'bout my day and what fun I had.

Mama kicked out my bone from under the covers below.
Then let loose a sigh - a sigh deep and low.
She gave me a kiss, and snuggled me tight,
And whispered so softly, "my darling goodnight."


Author Unknown
 



 

   


By Brian McGrory,
Globe Columnist | August 31, 2004

They should come with a warning label, these creatures. They should come
with a label that says you're going to fall hopelessly in love, only to
have your heart shattered before you could ever possibly prepare. And
then you face one of life's truly wrenching decisions.

Which is where I am now. Specifically, as I type these words I am on the
back deck of a rented house in Maine surrounded by fields and forest,
watching a sleeping golden retriever named Harry drift another day
closer to death.

He is gorgeous, this dog, with a
gray face that shows the wisdom gained
from his 10 years on Earth and brown eyes that are the most thoughtful
I've ever seen. He is sprawled out on the wood, his blond fur damp from
his morning swim and his breathing laboured from his disease.

And I ponder the question that has dominated my thoughts for weeks: How
will I know when the time is right?

He arrived in my life nearly a decade ago on one of those storybook
Christmas season nights that is too good to ever forget. He was a gift
to my wife, and when she opened the box the tears that spilled down her
face were those of joy.

Women, of course, come and go, but dogs are forever, so when the
marriage ended, Harry stayed with me. Since then, we've moved from Boston to
Washington, D.C., and back again, fetched maybe a quarter of a million
throws, walked, I would wager, over 10,000 miles together. He carried a
tennis ball in his mouth for most of them, convinced that anyone who saw
him would be duly impressed. And, judging by their reactions, he's right.

Throughout, he has shown me sunrises and sunsets that I wouldn't
otherwise have seen. He has taught me that snow is a gift, that the
ocean is there for swimming, that the coldest winter mornings and the hottest
summer days are never as bad as people say.

He has introduced me to people, kind people, whom I otherwise wouldn't
have met. He has forced me to take time every morning to contemplate the
day ahead. With his tail-swishing swagger, he has taught me to slow
down,
to pause in an Esplanade field or on a Public Garden bench, the journey
being as good as the destination. The big ruse, which I think he figured
out years ago, was that all these walks were meant for him.

He has been an anchor in bad times, a ballast amid occasional
uncertainty, a dose of humility when things might be going a little too
well. He has been a sanctuary, a confidant, and an occasional excuse.

He regards it as his personal mission to make me laugh, whether by a
ritualistic dance over a pig's ear or a gushing lick to my face. He's
never once said the wrong thing, and it's impossible to be in a bad mood
around him.

All along, he lives by one simple mantra: Count me in. Anything I'm
doing, he wants to do as well, no leash or nagging required. At home, he
prefers to lie on the stoop of our condominium building, presiding over
the world around him.

His time, though, is fleeting, a fact that he's starting to understand.
In April, his lifelong veterinarian, Pam Bendock, blinked back tears as
she informed me that his stomach pains were caused by lymphoma. Several
rounds of chemotherapy failed to do what was hoped. Two weeks ago, I
stopped his treatments.

These days, he has lost 10 pounds or more and can't keep food inside. He
often wakes in the dark before dawn moaning softly in pain. But by
daybreak, he is urging me toward the beach or guiding me on another
walk, ball in mouth, ready to fetch, albeit slowly.

Maybe I should be embarrassed to admit that a dog can change a man, but
I'm not. So as the clock winds out on a life well lived, I look back at
the lessons learned from this calm and dignified creature, lessons of
temperance, patience, and compassion that will guide us to the end.

And I look into those handsome brown eyes for the sign that the time has
come. He'll give it to me, when he's ready. And hard as it will be,
we'll both know the journey was better than we could have ever possibly hoped for.

Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at
mcgrory@globe.com
 



 

   

Dogs come into our lives to teach us about love,
they depart to teach us about loss.
A new dog never replaces an old dog; it merely expands the heart.
If you have loved many dogs, your heart is very big.
(E. Jong)