When I was young, I had a dog
called Ricky. Ricky came to live
with us when he was a puppy
and we were inseparable.
We lived next to the fields and we would
go there for long walks together.
Eleven years old when he came
and twenty two when he left us.
Eleven years of my life he
was present. I believe that dogs
resemble their owners, in ways
That surprise the owners themselves
If I lay in late, he was there,
right beside me, happy dog that
he was; the best dog ever to live
At least in our family home.
My father was the boss at home;
we all knew when to be quiet and
when it was safe to laugh and play.
Ricky knew the rules of the house.
He managed not to upset dad,
by being good and never bad.
He was gentle and he would let
our pet budgie onto his back.
Off to the vet, he had a cough
He looked at me, as if to say
He understood; it was okay.
He didn’t come back home that day
A tearful day in our wee house.
Not a dry eye was to be seen.
He was a great dog, he was mine.
The family loved my Ricky
We were kindred spirits, and I
still think of him as time goes by.
If he was a man, he would be
a gentleman, perfect for me.