The War of Attrition
When the dog no more remembered
where yesterday’s bones were buried,
the old gal began conversing
with her long-dead mother and father.
As his eyesight blurred then during walks
he attached himself to strangers;
she wrote off to Her Majesty
claiming blue-blooded connections.
At night he would lose his bearings
and come barking into bedrooms;
she rang the railway and requested
a Return to 1940.
He grew too slow for sticks we’d throw
and deaf to our exhortations;
she wedged into a wheelchair tuned
to the BBC Home Service.
We finally had the dog put down,
he was buried in the garden;
she wore best togs and waved a flag
at the VE Celebrations.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Raymond Miller
would be pleased to hear them.