My Pet Poems, Watson

Watson “This is a definite, future champion,” The breeder stated knowingly, as He’d raised a few. So, we debated calling him Sherlock, the royally-held-high detective of all British literature. “See,” the breeder had added, “His long ears, nearly touching down To the ground! A standard for winning!” But, what we saw in the small, perfectly shiny, Entirely all-black ball, who lay in Jim’s cupped hands, Was a character to join our lives, not for showing, But for loving. So, we chose to call him Watson, an endearing side-kick as he joined our home, barely Even regarding the curiosity of our cats. We lived on an off-street that led to a large park. We’d sit on our front stoop while Watson enjoyed Roaming the front yard on a long rope, then Come back over to sit beside us, while so many of The passing cars would pull over to a stop To call out a statement about the stunning Beauty of Watson, which we knew and agreed And cherished as we stayed in dear witness to his every Move, as he grew to celebrate his first year. Then, As his cocker’ hair grew and fleas came, too, with The coming of summer, he needed grooming. So, we took him to the vet where they also did that. But in that safe choice, destiny turned: Watson took a hard bite of the groomer’s finger At the start of a consuming seizure. At 14-month’s old, Our sweet gift of living, flowing beauty passed. The exquisite grace to see a masterwork alive Still stays before our memories’ eyes And endures in our hearts. Beauty, Yet the dear beauty lives... On with us. **********. **********. ********** (C) sally Young eslinger 11/2020