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After Sixteen Years
I picked up the old 4-10 shotgun
My dad had left me, and a shovel,
And led my old dog into the field.
He could hardly walk.
Arthritis crippled his hips,
Throat nearly closed by cancer,
But his tail wagged his happiness
As he struggled out after me,
No doubt remembering quail
Flushed from the tall grass
Or rabbits chased but not caught
Just for the exercise of his hunter's instinct.
By the giant oak tree at the
edge of the forest
I stopped - waited for him to catch up.
A few purple-brown leaves still hung
On the spreading branches
Already shed of their acorns,
Where we'd stopped to rest many times before,
Where I'd never be able to rest again.
"Sit" I commanded.
Like the well-trained bird dog he was,
He obeyed at once, and I patted his head.
"Good boy," I said, in a voice like dry leaves.
I stepped back, raised the gun and aimed,
Saw him cock his head, confused,
As I looked through the sights.
"This is different," he seemed to say,
("'Tis best 'twere done
quickly...")
And I fired.
With eyes half blinded by tears
I dug his grave.
I should have dug it first,
But then my courage would have failed me.
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