Back in February when I wrote these few lines to my daughter’s dog I could never have envisaged that by autumn she would suddenly fall ill with lymphosarcoma. At just 17 months old, she died today. We will always remember her gentle, faithful spirit.
Half grown and heavier than the oldest man-cub in the pack
and teeth which crack a bone with ease but merely graze a hand in play
the cat disdains, but fears in turn the one quick bite and shake
as mouth on mouse or fledgling bird so practiced by the feline race,
– your strength’s the bond, fashioned with love from amber, and ivory black.