Good Boy

By Chris Bunton

We murdered our dog today.

Or at least that’s how it feels.
We say it’s for the best.
We say he’s suffering.
But, it feels like a pointless death.

He ran into the vets office.
A Good Boy with cancer.
He tripped twice, bumping a wall,
and peed for the last time.

What did he think as he went inside?

Did he trust us to heal him?

Every day is a new day to a dog,
even when they suffer.
They are good. Better than us.
We are not worthy of them.

That Good Boy waited on the table.
He wheezed and sneezed snot.
A lung full of death,
a tumor in his head.
He seemed ok, not so long ago.

The nurses held him,
while Kevorkian stuck him.
Once, Twice, Third time’s
the charm.

That Good Boy relaxed.
He laid down, and was gone.
I felt him leave.
He went through me,
and I died, inside.

That Good Boy’s free,
we tell ourselves.
We will see him again,
on some misty morn.

When we cross over,
through the Veil,
to that distant shore,
where Love and Peace
prevail.

My friend.
That little Good Boy,
wrapped in a blanket
with love, and nothing else,
to say.

I carried him,
and it killed me.
His weight was a
million pounds,
of pure heart.

That little guy died.
A Good Boy, better than me.
I put him in a box,
for a trip,
to his grave.

A pretty field,
where he can run,
and play,
barking like crazy.

Where he can sniff the breeze,
and disappear among the trees.

2 thoughts on “Good Boy

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