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Freckles Guthrie

I used to sing to Freckles when he was a ‘lil pup, I’d hum ‘n hold ‘n hug ‘n often whisper, “yo bud, what’s up?”

He was mortified of thunder and any loud PA-PoPs! Like men shooting clays at Weeburn country club.

He ran to get the paper, of which he was so eager, he’d bring my mother crosswords – so happy he could please her.

He got older daily: eventually he was ancient, still trembling at sounds but often stern and patient.

He ran away a few times and we gave him lively chase afraid he was killed or worse yet: injured maimed.

The vet gave him the needle – at long last he got his rest, my little puppy bud grew up and left us all so fast.

This French Brittany’s memories are of a moment’s span: he walked, he limped, he dug out holes, he ran, he sniffed, he swam.

It’s pleasant re-mem-bring poetry like a branch into a log, this memory stick unretrieved by the dog who I still love.

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