Daily poem: Cherita 23

I have just left Finbar with the vet. He has to have a non-malignant lump removed. It started to bleed and won’t heal up if he keeps licking it. Best to get rid of it altogether.

He’s been left with a vet often enough to have wounds stitched up, so he probably knows the routine by now—jab, icky feeling, long sleep, icky feeling, sore stitches—even if this is a new vet.  I’m feeling rotten because, intelligent as we are, there are some things we just can’t explain to a dog.


I hand the lead to the vet,


dog turns and in his eyes,

the single question—why?


So much we cannot say,

explain—he follows, unwillingly, afraid.

Trust betrayed.