William G. Womack
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I Called You Cajun
When did we get old, old friend?
When did you first notice things were dim,
Less etched and clear?
When did our eyes need a longer arm,
Or a friendly scent to help us see?
I wonder, too, if we really walk as crisply
On our nightly jaunts.
And is the silver shining in my hair
Distinguished like your graying muzzle?
("He's an old dog," they say--Do they see me old too?)
We were not always, old, old friend.
I see you still eight weeks young,
A fluffy blend of Australian and German Shepherd.
Your brown eyes memorize my face,
Peanut butter ...