It’s A Dog’s Life

by John M. Joyce (March 2009)

Little Dog had never been out of the barn and exercise yard in his short life and the lure of that open gate was irresistible. He made water against a rusty heap of old metal and then wandered through the open gate. He turned to the left towards the fields and went exploring down that rutted, slimy lane with a vague hope lurking at the back of his mind that he might find some food.

Eos woke Little Dog. Her rosy fingers luxuriously reaching through his thick and gentle covering of sere, fallen leaves, and a fine dawn it was, too. Broad ribbands of gilded pink engorged the Eastern sky and creamy blue streamers of fantastic light provided an unsubtle background to them. Little Dog awoke warm and comfortable beneath his natural blanket. He was extremely loathe to move but he was very hungry and very thirsty. A mere crust of bread, an apple core and a crumb of chocolate was really not enough to sustain the life of a fourteen weeks old puppy and it had become imperative that Little Dog soon find some proper food in proper quantities. It takes just seventy-two hours without good feeding to severely endanger the life of puppies as young as he, and it had already been thirty-six hours since Little Dog had last eaten a real meal.

Such, as I told you, are the old gods!

He came across his first pavement, sidewalk, a few minutes after setting out from beneath the swings. He followed its rough smoothness for some tens of yards before encountering the first human whom he had ever met, apart from the man who had brought the limited rations to the barn. He had no reason to distrust. The only human whom he had ever known before had provided food and water. Why should this one not do the same thing?

back to front!

After many minutes Little Dog hauled himself out of the mud onto the flagstones. His suppurating side hurt like hell, his wounded paw-pad stung to such an extent that he could scarce think of anything else, his broken ribs shot daggers of pain into his tiny little body every time that he drew breath. He was cold, very cold, he was hungry and he was very, very thirsty. He turned, every step an agony, and he lapped at the stinking water of his recent torture pool. He could do nothing other than that to assuage his thirst, whilst the unfeeling laughter of evil, believing men echoed from that nearby stoop.

Little Dog had reached his end. He could not go on for another step. He could do nothing more for himself. At the foot of the steps leading up to the backdoor of the house in that backyard Little Dog gave up: he keeled over and prepared to die in the manner of all animals, everywhere.

The Grey Man stood in front of him.

And in that instant of seeing love was born.

Little Dog was home.

***

In life Little Dog, Sam-Sam I should say, and Henry were inseparable. Henry took care of Sam-Sam in every possible way. I think that our Little Dog found his canine destiny for he always seemed to me to be a happy little dog, and I know that he made the lonely old widower Henry very, very happy. Let us pray for them both!

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