Toornie

nospam@example.com (Dirk Monteny) — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 13:20:00 -0500

Missy died two weeks ago
The cancer she had carried
For seven years had grown
To a size as big as my fist
One night it burst open
And being nineteen years old
A gentle sleep was all
I could offer her

Now I can’t manage
The long walks to the beach
With my Irish Wolfhounds anymore
Linda takes care of these strolls

I had to find myself a new friend
To accompany me on my slow walks
So I adopted an eleven year old mixed breed
Who listens (or rather not listens, he’s deaf)
To the name Toornie, that’s Flemish slang
Which means “It doesn’t hear”, quite fitting

Getting him home
I promised myself three things
That Toornie would get a peaceful
Carefree time during his last years
That I would try to guide him, like Missy
To the mature age of nineteen
And that I would survive him

Now I know that I can guarantee
The first of these three commitments

As for the other two

We’re going to give it
A damned good try

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Toornie