The poor little dog shook his fur
and whimpered.
Its owners
had left the country.
Its father
dead.
Its mother
unknown.
Death was calling him
from beyond the dirt in which
he had more often than not buried that white
slobber-covered bone
to save it for later.
It used its paws to dig to the voice
The hole appeared,
and earth’s arms reached out to pull him
under.
His deafening howls
were enough
to force me to open
that swinging gate.
He scampered inside and
crawled into my arms
glad to have finally found someone.
And in my arms
his life complete
he passed away.