Cycling along the boulevards yesterday afternoon, husband met this Irish Wolfhound puppy walking his owner (also in photo). A beautiful animal, but with a heartbreakingly short life-expectancy.
Wolfhound you were once in the dim past, a life of high esteem, and the wild open spaces, wolf-running. A century of selection, to bring you back, almost dodo dead, has made you, big puppy, a candle in the wind. In your eyes, nothing of the ferocious wolf-hunter that terrified the Roman legions. A soft light shines, tender and timid, and in their depths, a question—why am I?
Too big, bones too long, heart too far from toe tips. Beautiful and damned, and handful of years of life, and destined to die from inherent diseases. Brown-eyed beauty, a pure product of genetic engineering, you ask, why am I? And I have no answer.
birth to precocious old age,
spring melts to winter.