Finally he is gone.
No more gauntness to contend with.
No more gripping claws.
The sigh is heavy, full of relief – for him and, oh yes, for myself.
I take pleasure in buying bones for the dog.
I love to watch him crunch through them. Chicken wings like twigs between his jaws.
So much life in a scruffy dog.
I have poems to look through – to find the right one – for the funeral.
I remember how he’d love the touch of a dog’s wet nose against the back of his hand
hung limply from a nursing home chair.
I hear him in my head say what a good dog.
The carer says I loved that man and it sets me weeping.