Old Dog (Poem)

My old dog lies sick  sicker than we've ever seen him, even after the time he got the tiger snake bite when he was young and full of beans and stupidity  and used to chase anything that moved filled with the indignant hubris of the Jack Russell terrier that provided one half of his DNA

he is sick, and the vets at the vet hospital  can't really tell us why: bloods "unremarkable", they say, which could be a good thing, except  he is still sick, his poor stomach seizing and cramping his cheerful old man energy dimmed to a faint flicker as he stares out of his rheumy eyes from his fleecy kennel bed emerging only to strain and strain at the grass  and drink thirstily from his water bowl

he is sick, and he might have eaten something (although we can't think what) or he might have a virus or or bacteria (although we don't know how) or his organs might be closing down for the night as he sits in his great age and noses at twilight

he is sick, and we are facing the truth: the medicines and fretting love we give him may pull him through this crisis may see him restored for a time  but he is an old dog, now, full of years; his voice, once strident, now quieted his progress, once a gallumphing gallop, now a lopsided trot

and darkness is coming for him that last and longest velvet night that strange and unknowable light that may (or may not) lie beyond

and nothing we can do will turn it back as he goes to the west, taking pieces of us with him in his gap-toothed grin.