THE RUNT

An unusually chill night for Autumn

The wind had struck up a gale

And the rain had set in for the evening

while soon with the wind came the hail.

He knew she was out there among it

a tiny creature, so helpless and small

The Runt of the Litter they called her

but to him, she wasn’t at all.

He’d seen her at birth and decided

that she would come home, be with him

It wasn’t a spur of the moment

This conclusion wasn’t a whim.

So at five weeks he went to collect her

brought her in from the cold and the rain

from then on she brought joy and contentment

And his life was never the same.

Eighteen years she was part of his family

A little black dog he named Holly

A being made of delight and affection

And from that day, he’d never been sorry.

He watched her grow into a lady

When the moment summoned the day

that her puppy-hood leave her forever

she was companion and friend all the way.

She was ready to play when you wanted

And even when you did not

Her coal eyes that twinkled were hopeful

that you might throw the ball that she’s got

And when you were sad she’s beside you

Kissing away all your tears

Protecting you from all kinds of strangers

With a bark to dispel all your fears.

When the night fell and shrouded in darkness

she’d lay with her head on your heart

and dream of adventures tomorrow

with the fun and the games she’d impart,

But till then she’d be right there beside you

A friend, a companion, a mate

A creature who’d been grateful since autumn,

Always grateful; ‘Thank you for keeping our date.’