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Teddy was our mongrel dog who kept coming back to stay,
When my parents gave him up because we had to move away.
Three times my father took him back to live at his new home,
But we'd find him on our doorstep when he got the urge to roam.

Then my father heard the dog was being treated rather bad,
Which made my sister and myself more than a little sad.
And the next time Teddy sat and begged, in front of our back door,
My father then determined he'd be going home no more.

So Teddy moved back in with us and now lived three flights up.
And running free came easy for this mongrel, collie pup.
With not a thing to tie him down, he roamed both to and fro.
The way dogs were allowed to roam, near seventy years ago.

Some dogs back then lived lives of sin and Teddy fit the bill.
He chased the cars and chased the girls and both with equal skill.
But the thing that bothered most of all, was Teddy on the street.      
To see him chase a car would cause one's heart to skip some beats.

He'd never chase one from behind, but up front, near the wheel.
Then wrap his head around the tire: I'd feel my blood congeal.
And I would cover up my face, besot with fear and dread,
Just knowing when I looked again, our Teddy would be dead.

But never did this happen; that old scamp would beat the odds.
A gimpy leg now, here and there . . old Teddy had his gods.
Yes, dogs chased cars, it is a fact, in an earlier place and time.
Some did it good, some did it bad, but Teddy made it rhyme.

There came a day things did go wrong and Teddy got a smack.
I saw the proof on our front porch, where poor old Teddy sat.
Right then and there, from what I viewed, the dog had lost a race,
When I saw that his left eyeball, was now hanging down his face.

My sister knelt there with him, a fresh sandwich shoved aside.
She pushed the eyeball back in place, while I stood there and cried.
His eye stayed in and Teddy lived for a few more years to come:
Chasing cars and tramping round; a total canine bum.

And when his time began to wane and father threatened death;
My sister then decided she'd determine his last breath.
She walked him up some rail road tracks to the outskirts of our town.
With a twenty two long she shot him dead and left him in the ground.

That night she faced our father with the truth of what she'd done.
And said "you'd not kill my old friend . . to me he was someone."
So now his days were ended and he'd trod all he would trod,
With no complaints from him or us; he'd beat most all the odds.


© 2015 Diane Lefebvre
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