I whistled at the little dog,
It gave me a listlessly solemn gaze,
as if I was disturbing a sacred exercise,
as it tried to borrow a few sorrow-filled hours,
by lapping water by the cowshed,
the curved back, poking ribs betrayed
it's eloquent emaciation,
It left it's pain for my speculation,
bore it with a bravery only dogs know how
I knew it wouldn't make it
and I wouldn't interfere with it's fate,
for the dog had yet to have a name,
even if it had, I am not too sentimental about dying dogs
I am not attached to them
With time, someone will stumble upon its bones,
for a dog chooses solitude for a dignified death
And tonight, it's loud absence will shroud the compound
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