He is my best friend and has been for years,
With me since he's been a pup.
He picked us out--he had no fears,
He licked us when we picked him up.
He grew up with a cat, they worried each other,
To Lisenby, he was a friend.
He wants lots of attention, but he is no bother,
Just to be petted again, and again.
He's kept me sane in times of despair,
He is loyal beyond the words meaning.
He gives me solace, takes away my care,
On him always I find I am leaning.
Cross country we've driven, and driven once more,
He is great in the car on the road.
He is ready to ride, and always explore,
Where I'm at, he calls his abode.
When I was a gypsy, he came with me too,
He wouldn't be left behind.
He is my family, he's faithful and true,
The light of my life, he has shined.
But his eyesight is failing, his legs are unsteady,
But constantly he's at my side.
To go for a walk, he wants to be ready,
But sometimes, he'd rather ride.
When I got sick, needed help, feeling weak.
He didn't stop 'cause he was ailing.
He went next door, my neighbor to seek,
He took care of me without failing.
My worry is deep, am I that constant,
Do I tend him as well as I could,
My heart breaks, to think for an instant,
I don't do as well as I should.
This tribute to Mack is while he is living,
The companion I always count on.
My devoted love, I hope I am giving,
It'll be too soon that he's gone.
Joyce Lisenby
You know how dogs can yelp with pain;
its blood soaked in the sand,
And yet it crawled to him again,
and tried to lick his hand.
"Forgive me Lord for what I've done,"
it seemed as if it said,
But once again he raised his gun --
this time he shot it dead.
What could I do? What could I say?
'Twas such a lonely place.
Tongue-tied I watched him stride away,
I never saw his face.
I should have bawled the bastard out,
a yellow dog he slew.
But worse, he proved beyond a doubt
that - I was yellow too.
Robert W. Service
IT WAS THERE ON SHARPEN STATION,
WEST NEAR ADAVALE I'D BE.
BACK IN THE EARLY THIRTIES,
WORST DROUGHT YOU'D EVER SEE.
FIVE THOUSAND COWS WERE DYING SLOW,
BROUGHT FROM LAKE NASH TO ADAVALE.
THEY LIVED ON MULGA BUSHES LOW,
TO FEED THEIR BODIES FRAIL.
I WAS THE BOY WHO MANNED THE PUMP,
FAT CROWS IN THOUSANDS WAITED.
WITH NOT A BLADE OF GRASS OR SINGLE CLUMP,
THOSE CROWS FOR SURE I HATED.
THE CATTLE BITCH OLD FLOSSY HAD NINE PUPS,
MORE COMPANY FOR ME.
FOR I'D GET A VISIT ONCE A MONTH,
YES IT'S THEN THE BOSS I'D SEE.
THE DEAD COWS AROUND THE TROUGH DID LIE,
AND I'D SNIG THEM RIGHT AWAY.
I'D SHIFTED HUNDREDS BY AND BY,
CUT AND QUARTERED WHERE THEY LAY.
THE PUPS WERE DISAPPEARING FAST,
ONE EVERY DAY FOR SURE.
I CHECKED THE CAMP AND MISSED THE LAST,
SAW SNAKE TRACKS UPON THE FLOOR.
OLD MULGA SNAKE WOULD BREATHE NO MORE,
HE'D HAD HIS LAST PUP MEAL.
HE WAS BIG AS NINE FOOT FOUR,
WHEN THE LAST PUP HE DID STEAL.
OLD FLOSSY FOUGHT HIM TOOTH AND NAIL,
HE'D BIT HER ALSO TOO.
SHE CHEWED HIS HEAD OFF DIDN`T FAIL,
WAS DYING THIS SHE KNEW.
I HELD HER DYING WITH MY ARM,
HER PLEADING EYES I SAW.
SHE WENT TO SLEEP SO VERY CALM,
PASSED ON THROUGH DEATH'S FRONT DOOR.
Don Johnson