Old dog

When the old dog had to die after long years full with love and honor,

When the weight of time grew wearying and she was content to have it finished,

I brought my old dog to our friend.

 

Old dog lay soft against me, old eyes already closed, waiting.

Our friend's hand was gentle on the weary body, with its ragged fur

So gentle to find the frail small vein where death could enter.

 

Difficult, old blood runs sluggish, old veins slackly resisting.

So patient, our friend, his knowing hands, all I can see through silent tears.

I watch capable strong hands lightly coaxing, and at last a small red flower

blooms briefly in the crystal before he eases the plunger in.

Old dog only sighs very softly.

 

The weary heart slows and stops as the joyful spirit leaps free.

We wait a quiet minute, my tears dropping unheeded, into the soft fur.

Our friend withdraws, his gentle hands leaving old dog's cast-off body.

 

My head bowed over the weathered white mask for a moment

before I let her lie by herself and draw the blanket over her.

I wish the old dog had made it easier for him.

 

To bring even a kindly death brings sadness.

He asked how many years she had, and I heard more than that in his voice.

 

I wish I could thank him for keeping zest in her years, for making a good

end of them, for his capable hands, for his gentle word and caring heart.

 

I took the old dog home, and laid her as if sleeping, wrapped in her worn

blanket and sheltered deep in the kindly earth.

 

(Author unknown;

“This as a way of saying thanks to the many compassionate Veterinarians

who care for pets with their hearts as well as their skill.”)