The Soldier's Hound and Other Poems - The Soldier's Hound

By the door,

Of that one-story house—

Down, on that dreamy boulevard,

Lay a household broken—

A family shattered.

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Behind the front door—

That brown, wooden thing

With a window composed

Of four glass panes,

Stands a dog.

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A sheepdog, in fact.

An elderly, smooth-coated collie,

With white, black, and brown fur—

Now greyed at the edges by age.

His ears, at once pointy, yet floppy, stood atop his head—

As sentries, they stand—

And still are standing.

Ever alert.

Forever ready.

Constantly waiting.

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Waiting,

And waiting some more.

Waiting for the soldier who will, who can, never come home.

She was Killed In Action,

Far from this land,

Which we call home.

Killed fighting for the Freedom we enjoy,

And for the lives we lead.

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Now, she lay at rest,

Six feet below a marble slab,

Jutting out of Arlington’s hollowed ground,

Buried and gone.

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Yet, the Shepherd’s Hound never saw this.

He never knew this.

That such a grisly fate had befallen her.

To some, she was a hero.

To others, she was just another body,

In just another uniform—

But, to the Hound;

Who had watched her,

As she grew from childhood;

She was a girl,

A person.

Yet, she was not just any person,

As she was his person—

His little girl.

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She had raised him.

He had lain—every night—in her bed,

Asleep by her side,

As she dreamed.

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When she shipped out to basic training,

The Shepherd’s Hound lay not in her bed.

No, he went room to room,

Sniffing each person,

Protecting his flock,

And—when night fell—sleeping against the door,

Awaiting, ever so diligently,

His person’s return.

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Upon her return,

Using shore leave,

The Shepherd’s Hound was overjoyed.

He vowed that he would never again let his human—

His precious little girl—

Leave his side ever again.

Little did he know,

When he made that vow,

That upon the dreaded hour of her departure,

He—a mere hound—would get no say in such fateful matters.

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When the Twin Towers were felled,

By Butcher’s and Cowards—

Scum called Al Qaeda—

Killing thousands of innocents,

The Oath Of Duty sworn by his person,

His precious human pup,

His little girl,

Came calling.

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Managing to hide her fear from her family—

Bar only the Shepherd’s Hound.

Oh, he could smell the fear rolling off of her in waves—

As smoke billows from a fire.

She said her goodbyes,

She hugged the Hound one last time,

And she answered that righteous call to arms.

A call to defend nation and freedom—

To defend sacrosanct Democracy.

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After her departure,

The Shepherd’s Hound—

Her Hound—

Cried out wildly.

He howled, screaming, begging for her return—

Not understanding her duties,

Nor why she must leave.

All he knew was that his human,

Who he’d watched grow from a pup—

And who had raised him from a pup—

Was gone.

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Gone, as she’d been before.

So, as he had done before,

The Shepherd’s Hound sniffed the humans,

Going room to room,

And slept by the door,

Guarding his two-legged flock.

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‘Till, one cold, winter day,

Two strangers came.

They were dressed in that same crisp, black fur,

That the Hound’s human once wore—

Military uniforms, though the Hound did not realize it.

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They spoke stiff, cold words.

Words filled with dread and pain.

Words prompting his Person’s Parents,

Sobbing, to cry out with grief.

The sound of their howling cut through the air between them,

As would a tooth or claw through flesh.

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Knowing not the meaning of those words,

The Shepherd’s Hound snarled and growled—

Mistaking the message for a threat,

And hoping to scare away these intruders.

Intruders perceived by the hound as two-legged wolves,

Who dared threaten his flock.

The girl’s father, his girl’s father, snarled an order,

An order which the Sheapards Hound obeyed,

Falling into a reluctant silence.

Why he was silenced, the Shepherd’s Hound did not know.

Yet, the Shepherd’s Hound dutifully obeyed.

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The Shepherd’s Hound was not allowed to see her,

That final, solemn time—

As the rifle’s salute rang out,

And her nation’s flag,

Draped over her remains,

Was folded above her.

He was not there,

As what remained of his person,

His soldier,

His little girl—

Now encased in ornate wood—

Was lowered into hollowed ground.

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The Shepherd’s Hound is not aware,

That his soldier will never march home,

Or that there was a war in the desert—

Only that the Hound has not seen her person in so, very long.

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So, the Shepherd’s Hound waits,

Sitting by the door,

And guarding what is left of his two-legged flock.

He awaits, ever so dutifully, his human’s return,

As she is not home,

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