Poetry
Old Habits Die Slow (or is it slowly)
Michael Estabrook
We put our dog to sleep 5 days ago. He had cancer of the bladder and
intestines. He had such trouble going, and could never find a comfortable
position. I believe he was beginning to experience too much pain. That's not
good. His name was Yeats. He had papers. His mother was Kerry Lady
(RA663103). His father was Sonimar Topper (RA165450). He lived 13 years, 2
months, and 3 days. He was a good little guy. He loved to eat anything, even
carrots. He barked at squirrels and the mailman. He chased the neighborhood
cats out of his yard. Once he treed a coon. We miss him. This morning when
I opened the refrigerator to take out the cream for my coffee, I reached for
the can of dog food like I always do, to put it out so it warms up. But there
was no dog food, and there was no dog either.