- No Small Thing –

By John Herlihy

Strange how a simple, mute animal can become a close friend,

The bright eyes, lolling tongue, wagging tail there to the end.

The communication seems infinite, without the need of a word,

The sense of loyalty and trust mutual beyond anything ever heard.

There to say hello, to bid goodbye, through all the endless days;

There as a friend and companion, someone to understand your ways.

Always alert to every sound, every nuance, even your every mood;

When the days turn rainy and melancholy, your friend will also brood.

Whether on an evening walk and reading a book, the dog at your feet;

Solitude was never so sublime that you couldn’t your little friend greet.

Let us not forget the trust, the loyalty in this unique relation, always there;

One can refer to a host of unspoken emotions, with more love to spare.

But the life span of dog years are unequal to the human years that unwind;

The day finally arrived with a moment impossible to think of in the mind.

Yearling, the dog’s name, died early one sad morning with little fanfare;

An autumnal morning at that with its falling leaves and funereal air.

The old man woke to the deafening sound of the dog’s silence and absence;

With the inscrutable ways of nature, the dog knew to steal away its presence.

Knowing its time had come, the dog took itself off as its final gesture of love;

In the nearby woods in a bed of leaves, where the sun streamed in from above.

The old man knew where to find his friend, his favorite place all summer long;

As he saw red and golden leaves on the still, silver flank, he knew he was gone.

That night in bed, he missed his friend’s regular breathing and shaggy heat;

Grateful that the dog had retreated into the woods and not expired at his feet.

He remembered the first time he saw Yearling, a puppy skinny and skittish;

His heart throbbed full at the fulfillment of a long-standing childhood wish.

It was an autumn day as well, the dog chasing a leaf caught in a stiff breeze;

The dog jumped and caught the red maple leaf, floating as a butterfly at ease.

He dug a grave near the house and laid his beloved friend down into the hole;

The frail little body rolled, small and lifeless, to that place in his heart the dog stole.

Bird song split the silence as the old man held his breath to listen to the melody;

“A little early for mockingbirds,” he told the dog, who would know such rhapsody.

Early morning air was so warm, perhaps the bird thought summer had come back;

The dog never to come back and would never know what his master will now lack.

He stroked his hand over the velvety foreheat for the last time, this once more;

Now fondly remembering the many times he had already done this before.

The dawn sun had the bluest sky all to herself, as if she owned the light of day;

The numberless stars had retreated with the night with nothing more to say.

He now remembers all the love that the loyal dog would always to him bring;

He would always fondly remember the mutual love they had, no small thing.

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(c) John Herlihy 21 November 2018