DOUGAL

He runs through long grassy fields,
Chasing butterflies and bees;
His long ears flapping,
like furry wings on a breeze.

His tongue flops and flaps
While his spittle flicks and flies
And all the while can be seen
a sparkle, in those sad brown spaniel eyes.

His contrasting coat of liver and white,
Bouncing and bobbing in the long grassy meadow.
Stock still he stands; nose high on the scent,
Half turns, watching, waiting.

Till you get too close;
Then he throws his head back, laughingly
Bounding off again once more.
There's an old dog by the fire.

He simpers and whines
as his little legs scrabble.
Farts in his sleep;
There's an old dog by the fire.

Dreaming his puppy dog dreams.

©Copyright 2000 by Jim Love

Author’s Note: In 1982 after returning from the Falklands, with just three weeks leave, I was sent to Canada for six weeks. While I was gone my wife bought Dougal. He died in 1998.