She’s not the dog she was ten years ago,
When she would run for country miles.
Stiles and fences flew beneath
her feathered feet.
No stick unturned, no ball unfound,
no inch of ground uncovered.
Lately, she liked to sleep on the settee,
Just to be close enough
to rest her head on Catherine’s lap,
take an after dinner nap, twitching
in dreams of chasing crows
across the green fields of her youth.
Now her lead hangs empty on the lobby stand.
No need to call for tats or supper,
or to shout out ‘Bedtime’ when the sky grows dark
and let her out to bark at stars.
Her bed has lost her body’s warmth.
She sleeps, now, only in our memories.
John has spent forty years sitting behind a desk tapping at the keys of a computer for ten hours a day and writing about Investment Banking. Freed from the yoke of the capitalist oppressor he now sits behind a desk for five hours a day and writes about whatever he likes. Then he goes and walks the dog.