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Comment 21 of 31, added on September 24th, 2005 at 10:46 PM.
I am sending a competing death of dog poem. Author is my late wife Inta.
ae
When the dog dies
He lies on the table, eyes closed,
the trembling quiet now.
Pink liquid in the needle,
a short yelp, and it's over.
They're ready, the vet says,
when they go so fast.
We cry, I take his collar off.
At night, I dream of him
running circles, touch
the thick rough fur
by his neck and feel the tag gone-
no one to return him now.
Sixteen years of walks-
parks, wildflower reserve,
Plantations, Rim Trail, Lick Brook,
Abbot's Loop, and many nameless paths,
on foot or skis, he struggling through the snow.
Lately, for his sake, more on flat trails.
We force ourselves to walk now,
explain to other regulars,
pet their dogs, and go on,
the warm brown shadow still
between us, the ghost leash
loosening, as he falls behind.
Ezergailis, Andrew from United States
Comment 20 of 31, added on September 24th, 2005 at 8:45 PM.
So much for comfort when you need it!
Srella Wilson from United States
Comment 19 of 31, added on July 6th, 2005 at 11:28 PM.
Raymond is, in my opinion, one of the greatest poets of the 20th century.
He captures his audience, tells his story in a raw manner, yet each poem he
wrote has it's own soul. Your dog dies is no exception. To bad most of the
poster of comments so far just don't get it! I'd suggest they grab one or
two of his books and spend a little time learning his style and getting to
know him.
Ron from United States
Comment 18 of 31, added on June 24th, 2005 at 1:40 AM.
is now good poetry without sorrow.That's the poet's curse.
Sergio from Yugoslavia
Comment 17 of 31, added on June 18th, 2005 at 11:31 AM.
You have to step back...this poem is not about us. There is no lesson
here. Its about the madness of a poet. A dog dies, and the narrator does
the "normal" thing. Feels sad, buries it, etc...But he is a poet and
writes about it. And then he feels bad b/c he realizes that he is almost
glad it happened, b/c it gives him something to write about and so and so
on into this mental whirlpool of abstraction from reality until all that
really matters are the words on the page. He hears his wife (maybe his
daughter) scream his name, "Ray-mond" to reach him. But he is lost -- the
mad writer.
Kamal from United States
Comment 16 of 31, added on June 8th, 2005 at 4:47 PM.
I agree with Melissa Allen. I mean who would want to write about death in
general, much less your daughters dog?
Raymond Carter has mental problems.
Sarah Vakos from United States
Comment 15 of 31, added on June 3rd, 2005 at 4:33 PM.
this was the most stupid poem i have ever read!! why would you be happy
about the dog getting run over?!?!?
And who ever wrote this poem is a syco.
melissa Allen from United States
Comment 14 of 31, added on May 21st, 2005 at 9:23 AM.
wow that's amazing! At first a bit funny but finally....you know what I
mean
Julia from Austria
Comment 13 of 31, added on May 10th, 2005 at 4:56 PM.
wow that is amazing!! i thought it was weird at first because who would
want to write about a dead dog???
sarah from United States
Comment 12 of 31, added on March 26th, 2005 at 5:54 PM.
OMG! That was the funniest thing I've ever read!!!!! Who doesn't like
doggie-suicide? I mean, how original is that? I want my dog to run in front
of a mac truck so I can write about it!!! Woo!
REL from Botswana
This poem has been commented on more than 10 times. Click below to see the other comments.
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I am sending a competing death of dog poem. Author is my late wife Inta.
ae
When the dog dies
He lies on the table, eyes closed,
the trembling quiet now.
Pink liquid in the needle,
a short yelp, and it's over.
They're ready, the vet says,
when they go so fast.
We cry, I take his collar off.
At night, I dream of him
running circles, touch
the thick rough fur
by his neck and feel the tag gone-
no one to return him now.
Sixteen years of walks-
parks, wildflower reserve,
Plantations, Rim Trail, Lick Brook,
Abbot's Loop, and many nameless paths,
on foot or skis, he struggling through the snow.
Lately, for his sake, more on flat trails.
We force ourselves to walk now,
explain to other regulars,
pet their dogs, and go on,
the warm brown shadow still
between us, the ghost leash
loosening, as he falls behind.
Ezergailis, Andrew from United States