Felix Dennis

Felix Dennis, Poet, Publisher and Tree Planter

Putting Licky Down

What is it, then, you say to them
      When medics shake their head;
When heaving lungs are thick with phlegm,
      Your old bitch marked for dead?

What salve is there to comfort eyes
      That trust beyond their pain —
What right have I, when all hope dies,
      To whimper, or complain?

Her days were mischief, sleep and play,
      Her tongue a children’s shrine,
She stole some hearts along the way —
      And one of them was mine.

What’s left to do but stroke her flanks
      And kiss her half-pricked ear?
What bridge have I to make my thanks?
      Good night.  God speed, my dear.
Mandalay, Mustique July 30, 2003
Licky was an orange ball of fur who lived a long life and produced many puppies. I inherited her when I bought my house on Mustique from David Bowie. Beloved by every child who ever met her, she sat at my feet in my study for more evenings than I can count. Even now I look down occasionally when writing, expecting her familiar white muzzle to be staring up at me.
Poem Published in the following books: Island of Dreams  

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