Our Dog Spencer
I recall our golden retriever from memory
Spencer, or ‘weasel’ as Dad also liked to call him (yes, a dog with two names)
He was the first child really
Bounding, burning mane and all, around the house before Ben hit the bassinet
His lolling tongue leaping at monarch butterflies, paws traipsing chicken shit through the house
He outlasted a goat, two goldfish, a cat, and my grandad
But he couldn’t outrun the panzers. Those little German kinder who visited death upon him
They finished him right off, the tired old guy – and gave me measles too
Where is he now?
In a box on the mantle, behind the fireplace, above the pile of old Evening Posts
It’s a small thing, wrapped in some kind of pink hued tracing paper, tied with a neat yellow ribbon
Slowly, the dust that’s settling on it is nearing the amount of ashes within
I wish someone would wave a feather or two over it
