He runs through long grassy fields,
Chasing butterflies and bees.
His long ears flapping,
like furry wings on a breeze.

His tongue flops and flaps.
While his spittle flicks and flies.
And all the while can be seen.
a Sparkle, in those sad brown spaniel eyes.

His contrasting coat of liver and white.
Bouncing and bobbing in the long grassy meadow.
Stock still he stands, nose high on the scent.
Half turns, watching, waiting.

Till you get too close.
Then he throws his head back, laughingly.
Bounding off again once more.
There’s an old dog by the fire.

He simpers and whines,
as his little legs scrabble.
Farts in his sleep.
There’s an old dog by the fire.


Dreaming his puppy dog dreams.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

In 1982 after returning from the Falklands three weeks later I went to Canada for six weeks.
While I was gone my wife bought Dougal.
He died in 1998.

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