Last week, M and I went for a drive. We started down an unfamiliar road and M saw an old brick farmhouse. Bounding out from behind the snowdrifts was a dog; some kind of hound. It ran to the car and greeted us as though we were old friends. M stopped the car, opened the door and petted the dog for several minutes, then told the dog we had to be on our way and to go back inside where it was warm. I thought of a poem I'd heard recently and wondered if it could have been written about this dog:
A Dog Sits Waiting
A dog sits waiting in the cold autumn sun,
Too faithful to leave, too frightened to run.
He's been here for days now, with nothing to do,
But sit by the road, waiting for you.
He can't understand why you left him that day.
He thought you and he were stopping to play.
He's sure you'll be back, and that's why he stays.
How long will he suffer? How many more days?
His legs have grown weak, his throat's parched and dry,
He's sick now from hunger and falls, with a sigh.
He lays down his head and closes his eyes,
I wish you could see how a waiting dog dies.
-anonymous
