I hate poetry. Really, most of it is just bad. Especially mine. That's why I don't indulge in it.

But quite a number of years ago a friend of mine lost his dog. It was yet another joke pulled on us by that bastard creator who thought that it was funny to invent the unique and indescribable bond between Man and Dog, and then to give the dog just fifteen years or so. I felt his pain, having gone through it myself in my teenage years when I lost the companion that I had been with me since birth and whose company I had never been without, until one day when the world seemed to end.

The death of a dog tears the human heart in a way that can never fully be healed. As much as it hurts us, though, perhaps it is helpful to remember that dogs do not think the same way we do. They are far more philosophical about death, more understanding that it is simply a part of living, and I always imagined that they dreaded it primarily because they knew how it would affect us. I believe that dogs are instinctively aware that death will come eventually, which is why they are always so happy and playful and enjoying the moment. We could learn a lot from them.

So my friend told me that his dog had died, and as much as I loathe poetry, for reasons I am still not able to explain I thought to take pen in hand and wrote the following bit of verse for him. I'll share it now, having happened across the original copy in a yellowing pile of papers in one of those boxes that lies forgotten in the back of the closet for decades. Share it as you see fit with anyone who might take some small comfort from it. I only ask that you keep my name on it and don't try to make any money from it. That's not what it was meant for.