(Note: this first appeared in April 7, 24 and was republished, here, following a correction revision)
Not my poetry, in the sense that I wrote them. No, they belonged to real poets: Clemente Clarke Moore, Ernest Thayer, Robert W. Service, Hugh Antoine D’Arcy, Grantland Rice and Abraham Lincoln. I just memorized and recited them to her.
But she didn’t know, or care, who wrote the words. I think she just enjoyed the rhythmic sound that accompanied our steady pace. She never sighed or balked when I began each line, or repeated sections until I had it right.
The Night Before Christmas may have been her favorite. I’d recite it over and over and over until I couldn’t change the inflection points and it got boring, probably for both of us.
Spring came along and with it the start of a new baseball season. What could be more appropriate to memorize than Casey At The Bat. I did, a little bit a time as we walked along, side by side.
It was the All-Star game before I had it down verbatim and recited it ad nauseum. By the ‘dog days of Summer’, it was wearing thin on both of us. I sensed her boredom.
Following a short break, I picked up memorizing again and locked down Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address before the November 19th anniversary of the President’s iconic speech.
Lincoln, himself, may have delivered the speech in a quiet manner but each dramatic line found me delivering it with gusto. Neighbors probably thought it odd to see me talking and gesturing theatrically, only stopping to pee or sniff.
Memorizing poetry gave this Senior’s brain some very good exercise, I’m uncertain what it gave her, but she didn’t complain. Dogs are like that, they give you all the attention you want and don’t ask for much in return, just your love.
Over time, I managed to conquer The Cremation of Sam McGee, Alumnus Football and The Face On The Barroom Floor. She approved them all.
I still walk daily but since Daisy passed away this February, I’ve stopped with the poetry. Music accompanies me, now, on the same paths where we walked and talked. She’s deeply missed.
The Last Battle is a poem about a pet’s message to its guardian in its final days. The message is clear. The following is the opening stanza and the author is unknown but I like to think that our pets wrote it…
If it should be that I grow frail and weak
And pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then will you do what must be done,
For this — the last battle — can’t be won.
You will be sad I understand,
But don’t let grief then stay your hand,
For on this day, more than the rest,
Your love and friendship must stand the test.
Steve, 040724
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To pet lovers, everywhere.
S'amusing 