Brian Joseph Dickenson

Rookie (Not dead yet. Born in the first half of the last century. / Liverpool, England)

Max - Poem by Brian Joseph Dickenson

Of all the people, places, things,
I miss, as I grow old,
There's only one in my memory
That I would like to hold.

Just a dog, a Labrador,
But so much more besides,
I missed him so when he had to go,
But in me his soul resides.

He came to me one Christmas time,
A present from my wife,
For seventeen years he stayed with me,
Through happiness, grief and strife.

He never asked a lot from me,
Just food and a place to sleep,
But he was not just my best friend.
He worked to earn his keep.

On winter days we would go out
Hunting for the duck,
He’d have swam through hell to bring them back,
He was so full of pluck.

He was the envy of my peers
When they watched him work,
When their dogs failed to face the thorns,
Old Max would never shirk.

He'd plunge right in because he knew
How pleased I'd be with him,
Ignoring pain and suffering;
To prove my faith in him.

He was only a dog, a big black dog,
And one who's sorely missed,
I couldn't stop the tears that flowed
When his dying face I kissed.

If animals go to heaven,
As we may do when we die,
The greatest joy I'll ever have
Is to see him bye and bye.

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Poem Edited: Wednesday, July 7, 2010

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