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.
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