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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 very little fault, and he didn’t worry for the mud
That clung his feet like a monster primed to attack.
He pressed his nose into the dirt to sniff the scent of
Death, and followed it over lumps and bumps to where
A cold man lay. Half enveloped already—the mud, like quicksand,
Swallowing him whole— but the dog did not miss him
Whilst he lay there like a ghost. His breathing was so little,
Even the dog could tell his fate. This poor young man was dying:
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 slipped away and said his final prayers
And goodbyes. Oh this little dog was the only one to hear
This good man’s words: as he wished his family well,
And blessed his comrades still stuck in this living hell.
Now, the dog let the man stoke him, and watched
(With fixed intent) the steady rise and fall of his chest.
And as the blood exiting his pale body began to slow,
The dog knew it was over. The 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 years.
Copyright ©
Amelie Ison
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