Spanky

It was a day of celebration when Dad turned seventy.

Hubby came home unexpectedly.

Much to our surprise, from inside his truck,

out came a baby boxer pup.

No, it wasn’t for Dad, but a gift for Mag.

You see, Buzzy had passed, and we were all sad.

The timing was now, to make us glad.

The dilemma became, what should we name?

We began to play the naming game.

All put a name on a slip of paper.

The choices we had were all quite fancy,

but the name we chose was ironically Spanky,

a nickname for our beloved Frankie.

His coloring was fawn with a white barrel chest,

a patch shaped like a wishbone, a signature crest.

A neighborhood dog who adored the kids.

Try to take him away? Heaven forbid!

Loyal and trustworthy is he.

Lying in the sunlit driveway he’d greet you with glee.

He’s almost eleven now; the years are showing.

He’s somewhat quiet, and the gray is glowing.

The spunk is gone, and his weight has decreased.

He rallies for strength when he hears a clunk,

a bark now and then when visitors arrive.

We love on him till that dreaded day

we just might have to say goodbye.

This poem was written months before Spanky passed. I wanted to remember all I could about the season in our life that he graciously added so much joy to. Today, I remember him and the 11 years he spent loving us and how my family gathered together to shower him with love and affection to make his last days comfortable.