CCII

There is a little dog I used to know

who’d cut his nose up digging in the yard.

Betimes he’d wag his tail both high and low

while blood dripped from his face both red and hard.

He’d cut his feet on stones and rocks and sticks,

and cough up crimson when he pulled the chain,

and nothing that I did to find a fix

could calm the self abuse that was his bane.

That cursèd spaniel worried me oftime.

And while his labors often made me weep,

I didn’t care if his blood mixed with mine

when he curled up in bed with me to sleep.

I hope the songs I sang him near the end

were solace to his pain, that dearest friend.