The Mercy Dog

I watched a dog sweep across the land where no man stands; So delicate in his every step— He manoeuvred across it with a strange familiarity: The mud to him was not a problem, Though it clung to his feet like it was trying to drag him deep down. He lifted his nose into the air to sniff the scent of death, And trekked over lumps and bumps to find where a cold man lay. He was half-enveloped already— The living, breathing mud having started to swallow him whole— Even the dog was able to tell his fate: His breathing was quiet and he laid so eerily still; like a ghost. Anything done now was too little too late. So the dog, empathetic in its very being, lay down at his side, To comfort him as he said his final prayers. The dog let the man stroke him, watching (with fixed intent) The shaky rise and fall of his chest—waiting for death. Soon the blood exiting his pale body began to slow, And the dog knew it was over. His job was done. He had offered the one thing he could in his primitive being: mercy. To a scared and lonely man, in the final moments Of his short life.