I was a small tyke when we got
the brownish-yellow dog.
The question is why
because my dad didn't like dogs.
He didn't allow him in the house.
‘What will we name him', someone asked.
‘Let's call him Buff', I cried.
‘Why Buff? '
‘Because that's what color he is.'
My mother was astonished
‘He's never heard that word before, has he? '
Buff was a good friend
to me and my siblings,
but memories are scarce.
Dad had threatened
to get rid of him
if he didn't stop making messes
in the yard.
It was a sunny day when I saw it:
Buff dragged a carcass
next to the door of the milk house.
‘Oh no Buff, why did you do it? '
He didn't understand, I thought.
I must get rid of this before
dad gets home, but how?
There was blood and guts
and fur and bone.
I couldn't touch that.
I must look for something to use.
Did I forget about it?
I was behind the house
when the big grain truck came.
Peeking around the corner,
I saw the men hoisting him up.
He looked happy to be on an adventure.
He didn't know
that he would never see me again.
I should have run and screamed,
but I was a timid and quiet boy.
My pleasure. I assume that it was my mothers idea to get (or keep) the dog. I wish I could remember more about it. One of those memories that almost slipped away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A well-told tale and a sad one. I didn't understand what happened to the dog. Did the people in the grain truck steal him? Your last stanza is very poignant.