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.

Raymond Miller

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Raymond Miller would be pleased to hear them.