Old Blue-Tick Hound

Damn old worthless dog. How lazy he lies in shade on my porch, by my rocking-chair. Good but for flea food or a perch for flies too old to bark at a wild hog or hare. He’s fast asleep with one half open eye as if to protect me, like he still could. His old body sore and I know that I (for his old age) must put him down for good. Like a thank you for nothing, same as a gentle pat on the head. A gift to guard him from pain, to cut short his days so they won’t be his burden. My sympathy charred and heart destroyed, to give my old pal this reward, this kindness, this murderous kiss.