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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1808484-Tag
Rated: E · Poetry · Pets · #1808484
A poem for the dog who taught me a lesson.
Tag

Dedicated to the memory of Tag


You know, there was once a time,
A time long ago,
When I had a master,
And he was all mine.

We’d go out together,
We’d hunt and we’d find,
I sure loved my master,
Because he was mine.

I’d sit in his truck,
And we’d go away,
Me happy, he smiling,
“We’re going hunting.” He’d say.

I yearned for those moments,
Those long summer days,
Hunting was my passion,
I loved hunting and its ways.

But one day that changed,
And I could smell animals no more,
“No matter.” He’d say,
“I don’t like hunting anymore.”

But I could tell he was lying,
He’d lost the gleam in his eye,
My master yearned for the wild,
Yearned for it like I.

So we never went out,
My body was old,
Old and used up,
My youth had been sold.

I still longed for the wild,
Still longed to get out,
I just wanted to go hunting,
Wanted to walk all about.

But then one day,
That other dog came,
All yipping and yapping,
Too stupid to answer to his own name.

But they cooed and they awwed,
They all called him cute,
They didn’t even realise,
He was nought but a brute.

All barking and chewing,
Amateur I’d say,
He’d chew all their carpet,
Day after day.

But then that fateful moment came,
My master and his truck,
But my name wasn’t called,
It was his, with his dumb luck.

And so away they went,
Off hunting they go,
And looking on forlornly,
I sat there, surprised by the blow.

And so it continued,
Until the day of my death,
My master taking him out,
Til my very last breath.

And on that day,
My master cried,
He knew what had passed between us,
He knew why I had died.

It wasn’t of old age,
Or because of anything new,
My master had broken my heart,
He had torn it, right in two.

He had taken that amateur hunting,
That place I wanted to be,
He didn’t even care for it,
But it had meant everything to me.

And so my master was sorry,
He was sorry for what he had done.
He knew that it was his fault,
That he’d done wrong to his favourite son.
And so here I am,
Old, decrepit and done,
But please remember me, and remember this,
Never forget your chosen one.
© Copyright 2011 Innes Hammond (tazzyken at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1808484-Tag