Mostly Rescued Poems 4

And some guy at his office desk carves up the world, and he tallies How much gold, the sea is hauling in its dark ships hulls. And there is the old professor, with his coat faded at the elbows. He searches, and in an endless count, he assesses. And he buttons up his old robe, of cold he freezes, He sinks his neck in his collar, plugs his ears, and he sneezes. Skinny as he is, frail and feeble as he appears, The vast Universe is in his reach, and it nears. Since at the back of his brow, the past and the future unite.

Like Atlas of ancient times, who propped the sky on his shoulder, So, our professor props the space and the eternal time in a number. While over the old scripts, the moon lights with its glow, His thought takes him back billions of years, right now: To the beginning, when a living or nonliving thing there was not, When life and will, lacked for the whole lot, When hidden was nil, though the lot was out of sight, When weighed down with wisdom, the Hidden One relaxed His might.

Was it a deep rift? Was it a sheer fall? Was it a vastness of water? Because there was darkness, like a sea without a ray of light, But there was nothing to look at, nor eye to see into the night. The shape of the un-formed did not start yet to work loose And the endless peace rules at ease… But all of a sudden, the first and the only one, a point stirs rather… Look how out of the chaos it forms a mother, and it grows to be the Father. That point of motion, even weaker than a bubble, It has total control over the entire Universe, without any trouble… Since then, the endless night sorts out in galaxies.

Since then, come to light the Sun, the Earth, the Moon and the stars… Since then, up until now, colonies of lost worlds — with tales — Come from grey valleys of chaos on unknown trails. And they spring in swarms that glow from outer space. And by a boundless craving are lured to existence. Tiny nations, kings, soldiers and the well read, We come in generations and we think we know everything from A to Z. Like flies that live a day, in a tiny world that is measured by the foot, In that deep space with no end, we spin following the same route.

And we quite forget that this entire life is a poised instant, And at the beginning and at the end night is revealed, although is distant. And so, in the on and on night that never ends, We have the instant; we have the ray that still stands… When it will switch off, everything will vanish, like a shadow into the night. Since the hazy deep space is a dream of nothingness.

The Sun that now shines, he sees it dim and red, like veiled in dust, How, like a wound among dark clouds, it goes bust. And the altar screen of the world has dimmed altogether its ray Like the autumn leaves, all the stars have gone astray. And all is quiet. All plunges into the night of non-existence. And in a state of ease, the eternal peace gets going again in this instance. The same as one is in all, all is in one. Ahead of the others, gets the one who can.

While others with meek heart stand-alone and sigh, And do not grasp that like the unseen foam they quietly die. Whatever they want or think, what should the blind fate agonize? Shall the whole world accept him? Shall writers cause him to feel at ease? What will the old professor gain out of all of these?

Eternal life, they shall say. It is true that all his time, Like ivy on a tree, he clings to an aim. Forever, in all places they shall pass it on, all the same, By word of mouth, by means of my fame, My writings shall find shelter in a spot of some head. What crossed in front of you? From here or from there: And he shall stack your work on two lines, in a tiny footnote. On a silly page, he shall put you last, with a dot. You can build a whole way of life.

You can wreck it. Whatever you say, a shovel of dust shall stack over the whole lot. The hand that wanted the sceptre of the Universe, and higher ranks… And with vision to grasp the Cosmos, fits perfect in four planks. And with cold stares, like they are mocking you too, In the best funeral-procession, they shall walk behind you. And a shortie shall speak above everybody, reading your eulogy, Not to praise you… to polish himself in the shade of your celebrity. Look what awaits you.

Oh yes, you shall see… The time yet to come, is even with more impartiality. You were a man like they are… everyone is content. And in literary meetings, each guy with an ironic expression Will widen his or her nose, when about you they talk in session. It has to be said sincerely, With words, they shall praise you dearly. And so, fallen in the hands of anyone, they shall assess your toil. And apart from that, about your life, they shall stick their nose in. They shall look for dirt, faults and for some sin. All these brings you closer to them… Not the enlightenment That you shed on the world, but the sins, flaws and excitement, And blunders, and weak moments, and guilt from the past, Which, are linked in a fatal way to a hand of dust.

As, it opens the star gate to our own dimension in a twinkling, And once the candle is quenched, it releases much inkling. Many a wilderness, glares in your glow, virgin one you. How many a forest, hide in its shade shimmer of springs, from your view? Over how many thousands of waves, does your glow shift When, over the rough expanse of the seas, your light shall drift? I absolutely love this one! I wish I could say I have achieved the privilege of mastering the worlds greatest poets, but blessed that I can appreciate ones beauty of expression!

Can I ask who the poet is who wrote this and where you found it? Ozymandias my favorite short-form poem ever. But where is something from Dickinson, the Bard of Amherst? Brilliant poems too numerous to enumerate…. A good list apart from number one by Shakespeare. Number two by Donne is not bad.

Perhaps he should have listed off her favorite foods. Or even something about her physical appearance would have been better than nothing. There really is nothing about her, assuming it is a she. Shakespeare is grossly overrated. Most of his work is unremarkable but gets more attention because when he was writing hardly anyone had written anything.

If you read their poems you will sea they were great. Many people on the world have ridden them for many years…. Persian poems are as great as the sea is expansive. No mention of Invictus? It evokes such raw willpower as to overcome any inner demon. That said, there is a sense, to me anyway, of godlessness to it. These strike me as relatively hollow reflections compared to those on the list. I came across your list only yesterday. By the way, I happen to agree with you regarding Invictus. Your list is so beautiful, inspiring and for me personally extremely therapeutic!

Again in my personal opinion ones own view is by far more interesting, pure and appreciated! Thank you for this list! Most importantly it is not right nor wrong and should just simply not literally be appreciated! For instance, suppose you feel someone has wronged you, say a politician or perhaps someone close to you, and the actions you take driven by irrational emotion you realize later were silly.

If something appears in need of attention and underserved or underutilized, as in the less warn path, then we should naturally feel inclined to help and participate where it is needed. We should naturally be open minded and compassionate to our fellow man, even if they suffer for a sound reason. The two principles are perhaps contradictory, but I think Frost has experienced them and recognizes that he has them internalized, so the poem is an expression of that contradictory experience and elucidates the sometimes seemingly contradictory nature of life itself.

If there are layers of consciousness and layers of reality then the truth can perhaps be more closely approached. Principle 2 applies to ordinary human interactions at the most surface level and principle 1 demonstrates a larger scale principle that we can reflect upon in a more spiritual or philosophical state of mind but cannot entirely attain when confined to a human body. An individuals choices will make a difference in their own life but will have no effect whatsoever on society as a whole in most cases. So he makes it seem as if taking the path less traveled is what made the difference, when really, the were either the same, or there would have been no way to differentiate to begin with.

I do agree with those principles 1 borne out many times but the last line still flummoxes me a bit. I love that poem also. The story that goes with it makes it all the more moving. Thank you for taking the time to compile this list. I was inspired to revisit poetry after teaching it to my 3rd grade students.

They seem to really enjoy poetry and grasping meaning from it. I suspect that if Wordsworth had compiled a list of his best 10 poems, Daffodils would not have been on it. As you outline it, the sixth reason death is not to be feared is that death is not extinction for John Donne. But what is the victory he imagines? What does it mean that death will die?

Certainly John Donne believed in an enduring soul, but I would submit that the reason in his poem hinges instead on his Christian belief in the resurrection of the body, not on the continuation of a non-physical soul. I would suggest it is not primarily a realization that the body is subordinate, nor that there is a greater identification with the soul. And in that day, corruption, decay, and death will no longer exist.

This is the source of his hope and how he sees the powerlessness of death. The reality he is undoubtedly picturing is this same reality the writer of Revelation is picturing. It is a physical world that is being remade. It is not a world of disembodied souls. It is a world where the former order of things has passed away, corruption and death itself have become extinct.

As the poem says, death thou shalt die. And if this is true, I wonder if the possible applications you envision might need to be narrowed a bit more. Love to hear your thoughts. Thanks again for sharing. Thank you for your thoughtful analysis and question. To me, there is not necessarily any contradiction between our two interpretations. If the soul is made of matter, possibly itself composed of yet unknown or yet enigmatic particles that far exceed current scientific understanding, then from the perspective of the other side, from heavenly realms, the soul is the real body, potentially capable of regenerating or reconstituting lesser forms of matter, which include what we human beings perceive to be the physical human body.

Perhaps it is like a photograph. The human body is flat and two dimensional and captures a mere glimpse of the person, but the source of the photo, capable of generating more photos, is the soul. Both we might say present to us a complete physical body and a complete being, although the person obviously trumps the photo. Okay, you hooked me into another question! You definitely have a revision of the traditional understanding of the soul when you say it can be composed of physical matter.

I apologize if I am not. I am imagining that the physical matter, or super matter, never usually decomposes, just what we perceive on the surface as the physical body decomposes. At death, it is merely that the dirty or worn clothes are taken off. Without the restraints of this physical dimension there is an expanded consciousness encompassing our human consciousness. The electrons keep spinning and they maintain their atomic structure.

Our bodies are made of cells and molecules that maintain an overall macro-structure, so it could be that our souls are composed of atoms and subatomic particles and also have an overall macro-structure. If you were to destroy the atoms or split them, then you would be destroying the soul and releasing a huge amount of energy, which is basically a nuclear explosion or nuclear energy. That is the power of but a few particles of the soul I cannot mention this last metaphor and proceeding discourse without citing my own spiritual mentor Master Li Hongzhi: I disagree with the title of this list.

These are definitely not the 10 greatest poems ever written. At least half of these poems are quaint trifles. The list also exaggerates the importance of rhyme in English poetry.

Here’s my list of 86 poetic forms:

Or they transformed the way rhyme is used to make it less conspicuous and awkward. Perhaps, if you try this argument elsewhere, you may consider using a different example. Hopkins by the way is featured in our 10 Greatest Poems about Death: You do have an interesting point in which you correlate power and wizardry to greatness, but do no correlate posthumous fame or memorableness to greatness.

Perhaps you have your own top ten list that you can compile and share. I think in the future the list will need to be rewritten or expanded to include 21st century poets too, but we are not there yet. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird, — the achieve of, the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: I would argue that Hopkins is using rhyme here in a very natural and unique manner, not in the service of an awkward convention.

The sheer number of internal rhymes and alliterative and assonant phrases in this poem that do not feel forced is impressive. In, fact I think they help to convey this theme most powerfully. Hopkins himself said it was the best thing he ever wrote. Poetry is our hearts, our lives, our pain, and pleasure all penned for sheer enjoyment or reflection.

Enjoy and comment on the below. What mettle are you made of my son? From what fiber have you been cast? In glass, or wood, or iron are thee? By your life are these questions asked. You may learn much about a man By his fortitude and his grain, Only in time will each be tested Under stress, through fire, or disdain. Now a man of glass can be seen through With simply a look or a glance. Thine self ist warned that such a bond be worthy not at all, but thine forgets the words of thou when he has lost it all.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned. Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you. Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust. A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew, A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,— They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses.

Elegant and curled Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. But I do not approve. More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world. Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. And I am not resigned. We have the original spelling here: Most of the interpretations of these poems are not profound at all.

Thank you for your feedback. Feel free to offer your own interpretation of any of the poems, either in the comments section or for submission for publication to submissions classicalpoets. Alternatively, you may post a link to an interpretation that you feel is worthy. Perhaps the style is too informal in places, I agree. The Society of Classical Poets is hopefully raising poetry to greater heights and opening it up to common people who find that prevailing modes of poetry nonsensical and dull, and again inaccessible and irrelevant.

Rescued Poetry

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection: Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; Where the mind is lead forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action— Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads! Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut? Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee! He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the pathmaker is breaking stones. He is with them in sun and in shower, and his garment is covered with dust. Put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil! In our pursuit of God, we truly seem to be running away from Him.

If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight —let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have gained nothing —let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me —let me not forget a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house —let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

The lines are beautiful yet they carry spasms of distress. Try and the logophiles like me would definitely enjoy with mirth because words rearranged beautifully always fascinate the likes of us…. A good thesis when we mention the list but the fact that the greatest poems cannot be listed ,as there are innumerable languages in the world and the essence of a poem felt in its own language cannot be easily engrossed in a translation, cannot be ignored. Hitting the nail on its head!

Incidentally, there are many more and better English poems than these listed. What is a great poem? What is a good poem? What is a classic poem? What is simply a brilliant poem? People tend to get fixated on classic poets. I rather like the list, but I think there is some room for debate and discourse. With that being said, allow me to throw my favorite poem in the ring.

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. In my opinion not the best ever written. And these are for the English language. In German, Dutch, French and Afrikaans poems just as great or even better have been written. All are kind of shocking, and some may feel cheap. But I think they are good.

But I like them. Frost likely has 4 poems worth considering. I enjoyed your list and your commentary on each poem. I ran into it looking for a poem that I memorized at least 60 years ago. I do not know who wrote it, do you? This is my memory of it. If only I could go back. Some look ahead and say , Ah then I will be happy then. Here in the perfect present let me stay For I am happy now. Another looks, with eager eyes aglow, To some glad day of joy that yet will dawn, And sighs, I shall be happy then, I know. Oh, let me hurry on. But I — I look out on my fair To-day; I clasp it close and kiss its radiant brow, Here with the perfect present let me stay, For I am happy now!

This is definitely an amazing collection but I believe that everyone has a different perspective of analyzing a piece of poetry. So, coming up with a single meaning is not just and it often hinders the feelings with which a poets writes his poetry. Moreover, I loved the collection as it was more about the truth of the world rather than some orthodox philosophy. These significantly beautiful Poems and the import latent in them takes my mind right to the meaning imparted by the sculptures created on the walls of The Holy Temples of Angkor.

Each Pilgrim visiting Angkor carries back as varied meanings from the Temples as any reader shall after making a serious endeavor of understanding these lovely pieces of literary art. My mind also goes to yet another time slot when visionaries such as Aristotle, Socrates, and Plato also threw light on virtues related to inner-bliss and well-being of humanity and creativity of our maker in order to facilitate a better understanding of the ethereal facets of our existence. Hope that we all individually as also collectively are able to make some tiny difference to the times that we all live in.

Sometimes commentaries reflect the personal obsessions of the individual writing them far more than they do the poem itself.

But the last thing I see it as being about is the simple heroic narrative: The individual at the crossroads is jejune, a immature youth or an innocent mind, inexperienced with life, who believes his clear choices, even ones make for shallow, almost random reasons, are always for the good or are always right, reflect deep intelligence and thought, and always have a strong impact on the world. One starts to get a bit more honest and clear-sighted. It hints at the way little actions or choices can snowball as they roll forward into time and have tremendous effects.

And yet we try. Life can turn on the drop of a can of soup in a grocery aisle. There may be something worth learning from that. We come by it earnest if only by basic human nature but even moreso because we are thinkers, creators, dreamers, seekers of beauty and purpose and mystery- and all those things that make some of us to be perceived as a little weird and seemingly irrelevant. Pointless observation perhaps, as I lack any formal training whatsoever in the way of dictation of observation or rhetoric or what have you. I just love the music of word- or the attempt to happen upon a piece or compose something akin to the type of melodies that provoke a chill or a tear or a feeling in the pit of your stomach.

How weird of me to leave a comment like this. A closer look, however, may reveal a question that begs to be unavoidable and sneeringly unanswerable at the readers expense. The way it is written romances us into false wonderment and sense of security about the choices we have made. What about that sigh?

And that we actually find deep meaning in the poetry of others. It can bring healing to our souls even when not intended to do so. All of it is just intersting and it reveals something about the nature of humans in general. I wonder what Frost would have to say about the the influence and popularity and sheer endearment of his poem that was written out of playfulness.

There must be at least 6 Keats poems which I prefer to the Urn. These are all great poets and yet the superiority of Shakespeare is astounding. He is on a different level, inhabiting a different world, speaking a different language. Was he a man or an alien or a god? How the hell did he do it? Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls.

Where words come out from the depth of truth, where tireless striving stretches its arms toward perfection. Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit. Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever widening thought and action. I enjoyed the immense dialogue. Well In interstices of contingency every task can find its mastery. So then the crisis unfolding in folding time discloses its wine and roses rhapsody. Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam.

Learn how your comment data is processed. Poetry for the working man. This is my favourite too. I think it should be on the list. Thanks for the beautiful poem. This should definitely be on that list Reply. My Dad often reminded me of this poem. Awesome and meaningful poem.

You may have found me perky, as in my heart there was a song You may have found me with foster parents and a feeling that I belonged. Rescue me not only with your hands but with your heart as well. I will respond to you. Rescue me not out of pity but out of love. I will love you back. Rescue me not with self-righteousness but with compassion. I will learn what you teach. Rescue me not because of my past but because of my future. I will relax and enjoy. Rescue me not simply to save me but to give me a new life.

I will appreciate your gift. Rescue me not only with a firm hand but with tolerance and patience. I will please you. Rescue me not only because of who I am but who I'm to become. I will grow and mature. Rescue me not to revere yourself to others but because you want me. I will never let you down. Rescue me not with a hidden agenda but with a desire to teach me to trust.

I will be loyal and true. Rescue me not to be chained or to fight but to be your companion. I will stand by your side. Rescue me not to replace one you've lost but to soothe your spirit. I will cherish you. Rescue me not to be your pet but to be your friend. I will give you unconditional love. My foster dog stinks to high heaven. I don't know for sure what breed he is. His eyes are blank and hard. He won't let me pet him and growls when I reach for him. He has ragged scars and crusty sores on his skin. His nails are long and his teeth which he showed me are stained.

I drove two hours for this. I carefully maneuver him so that I can stuff him in the crate. Then I heft the crate and put it in the car. I am going home with my new foster dog. At home I leave him in the crate till all the other dogs are in the yard. I get him out of the crate and ask him if he wants 'outside. When we come in he goes to the crate because that's the only safe place he sees.

I offer him food but he won't eat it if I look at him, so I turn my back. When I come back the food is gone. I ask again about 'outside. When we come back I pat him before I let him in the crate, he jerks away and runs into the crate to show me his teeth. The next day I decide I can't stand the stink any longer I lead him into the bath with cheese in my hand.

His fear of me is not quite overcome by his wish for the cheese. And well he should fear me, for I will give him a bath. After an attempt or two to bail out he is defeated and stands there. I have bathed four legged bath squirters for more dog years than he has been alive. His only defense was a show of his stained teeth that did not hold up to a face full of water. As I wash him it is almost as if I wash not only the stink and dirt away but also some of his hardness.

His eyes look full of sadness now. And he looks completely pitiful as only a soap covered dog can. I tell him that he will feel better when he is cleaned. After the soap the towels are not too bad so he lets me rub him dry. I take him outside. He runs for joy. The joy of not being in the tub and the joy of being clean.

1. Rescue Poems | www.newyorkethnicfood.com.
2. 10 Greatest Poems Ever Written!
3. Thou Art Truly Evil.
4. Missing;
5. Character Worksheets.

I, the bath giver, am allowed to share the joy. He comes to me and lets me pet him.

One week later I have a vet bill. His skin is healing. He likes for me to pet him. I think I know what color he will be when his hair grows in.

List of 86 Poetic Forms for Poets

I have found out he is terrified of other dogs. So I carefully introduce him to my mildest four legged brat. It doesn't go well. Two weeks later a new vet bill for an infection that was missed on the first visit. He plays with the other dogs. Three weeks later he asks to be petted.

He chewed up part of the rug.

• Deliver Me (The Holmes Brothers Book 1)?
• Cached Out: A Cliff Knowles Mystery (Cliff Knowles Mysteries Book 2).
• finding poems within prose.
• Providing Rescue and Adoption Services in MD, DC, VA, PA & DE;
• El Millonario (Spanish Edition).
• Rescued Poetry | finding poems within prose.

Eight weeks later his coat shines, he has gained weight. He shows his clean teeth when his tongue lolls out after he plays chase in the yard with the gang. His eyes are soft and filled with life. He loves hugs and likes to show off his tricks, if you have the cheese. Someone called today and asked about him, they saw the picture I took the first week. They asked about his personality, his history, his breed.

They asked if he was pretty. I asked them lots of questions. I checked up on them. When they saw him the first time they said he was the most beautiful dog they had ever seen. Six months later I got a call from his new family. He is wonderful, smart, well behaved and very loving. How could someone not want him? I told them I didn't know. When I was a puppy I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend.

My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed, listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said , and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.

Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.

Rescue!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! | Be the Voice In What's Right | Pinterest | Dogs, Pets and Animal rescue

She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" — still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love.

As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigat ed my ears and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch — because your touch was now so infrequent — and I would have defended them with my life if need be.

I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams. Together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me.

These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf. Now you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness.

You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog or cat, even one with "papers. You gave me a goodbye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you.

You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too. After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked "How could you? They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow.

They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you — that you had changed your mind — that this was all a bad dream When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited. I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table, rubbed my ears and told me not to worry.

My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood. She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago.

She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you? With my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?