in the style of WH Auden
Stop all the clocks, hush the playful bay,
Sweep up the footprints where he used to lay,
Pack up the leash, the half-chewed bone -
Linus, our light, has gone from home.
Sixteen years he threaded through
our seasons, work, and play;
A nose to the ground, a howl to the skies,
A guardian beneath Sunday’s eyes.
First came Skipper, wise and spry,
who taught a child that dogs can die;
Then Bruegger, steadfast in the grass,
barking at leaves as the hours would pass.
And then Linus, a little stray -
a pardoned prisoner one ordinary day.
Oh, the riot of joy he carried inside,
Oh, the laughter he offered, untried.
He was a field-runner, a nap-taker,
soft-eyed dreamer, heart-breaker;
A Beagle of love and air,
whose empty collar now swings in despair.
The house grew still the day he died -
even the air seemed hesitant.
No rustle on stairs, no paws to pry,
No nose to nudge, no slumbered sigh.
At 173, his paws are still;
the sofa widens, remembering his weight.
Life abhors an empty space,
yet longing will lead us to search a face.
Another will come with mud and sun,
tracking his own sunlight through the house.
A carnival of bark, a tumble of tail,
a hope unspooling in a small body.
But let’s not pretend nor stoop to mend
the Linus-shaped crack time cannot end.
Grief is the price of a love complete;
we pay it gladly at Linus’ feet.
So raise a glass, let memories roar:
the Monster who bayed at the screen door,
the jester, the sage, the wanderer free -
still guards our hearts at 173,
and in that quiet, we are full.
GBS
2024
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