Old Buster was not a docile creature,
Though doggie naps were his
specialty.
He loved to run and romp and
play through
Wood bordered meadows and
pastures unending
Where rabbits and squirrels
were tests for his speed
That seemed unbounded by all
human measure.
No dog in six counties could
match his pace.
Totally loyal to family
familiars.
Even the cats with which he
was raised
Were his to defend if a
stranger should pass
Through his yard with a
cold-hearted sinister leer.
Visitors knew when they
pulled in the driveway
To wait in safe confines if
Buster was near.
His bark not a bark, but the
baying of madness,
Like hounds of the
Baskervilles cast toward the moon,
Quieted only by Master's
command
To calm acquiescence and
cautious resolve;
Yet staying the sentinel,
keeping his watch
Until firmly assured that no
harm was in store.
Sadly, old Buster had one
fatal flaw.
He loved to go chasing the
whining of wheels.
We buried him there near the
side of the road
Where he runs forever in
Heaven's fields.
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