Though you've barely had a ramble are no wayward canine daddy of note that brief encounter in our brambles has left the experts fearing a cancerous growth
So we starve you of your pine nuts and bacon rinds so we can feed you anaesthetic and betray you to the thief of time only to make you, I imagine, feel pathetic And you often so full of life's exasperate scurry
I worry will the shine stray from your eyes those hazel pools of so much of my feeling mature, just for pertaining to a creature's care
we all seem in too much of a hurry to stifle what little spirit that surrounds us to wear down on every minor aspect of childish delight in this silent sacrament of the aging process and with arguably years of your fatherhood left in the very ***** some dry eyed savant decides it correct we should tamper with
Tomorrow I will snuggle you in favoured, bouncy eiderdowns that will blanket your unknowing and treat you as if you were an eastering child on cured hams and other saltiness after you awaken from those strangest enforcements of sleep and through our eyes we will trade more secrets to keep
And we will hope, as we only can, that it was for the best For you, Yorkshire's son, or Sheringham's And consider with all of your exhuming breath That we meddled, stilling over life To cheat a slightly delayed death.
This poem was written on the occasion of the final night of my Yorkshire Terrier's non-emasculated, non-nuetured era. Even in his soon to be state of infertility, I doubt we will ever see his like again, as you can't recreate perfection.