The light came in and stirred my dreams; I rose to greet the sun once more,
Though joints protested every step, my tail still wagged along the floor.
I did not bark nor whine nor stray, I only longed to do what's right,
To reach the grass, to greet the breeze, to mark the morning, hold the light.
But legs betrayed where heart was true, and so he came, my master's arm,
The cradle strong, the whisper low, the breath of love, the breath of calm.
He bore me gently past the door where sparrows danced and shadows played,
And placed me where the sun could kiss the spot where once I leapt and laid.
The air was sweet with summer's balm, yet stillness clung to every bone,
The garden knew, the robins paused, and even bees had softer drone.
No chase today, no bounding path, no sentinel bark from post to tree,
Just one last watch beneath the sky, his voice a bond, and I still me.
Then came the ride I’ve known before, the scent of leather, steel, and fur,
The place where kindness pricks the flesh and gentle hands that minister.
The mat was warm, the room was still, a woman knelt with practiced care,
She stroked my brow, she praised my name, she called me brave and held me there.
I knew her touch, the tender pinch, the sweets to mask what pain might lie,
And all I saw was Master's face, and all I heard was his soft sigh.
His hand, it found the fur he loved, and rubbed the ear grown grey and thin,
He whispered low, the words he spoke I knew not all, but knew the skin.
He touched my chest, he touched my side, he touched the place where breath once swelled,
And in that stillness I was free, as every ache and struggle quelled.
I wagged once more to let him know, to ease the grief he could not hide,
And sank into the drifting deep, with belly warm and heart beside.
No leash shall tug, no call shall break the silence of my dreaming field,
No gate shall block, no storm shall rise, where now my soul is gently healed.
For I was good, as best I knew, through sun and storm, through game and guard,
And at the end, a faithful friend, I left my mark upon his yard.
So plant no stone, nor speak of death, but whistle soft and let me run,
In every dawn, where masters go, the loyal path I still shall come.
(By John Shenton)