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Trixie (July 4, 1961 - August 30, 1971 (Beagle puppy - written the day she died)

Cute, tiny puppy with blackened nose,
In a litter of ten, it was she I chose;
She wagged her white tail so furiously,
And wondered around at all so curiously;
I took her gently from the man at the fair,
We looked at each other with gentle stare;
Holding her closer, she licked me on the nose,
This little girl, with furious tail, she I chose.

We took her home, and soon laid her to rest,
Soon as all was dark, she howled at her best;
The lights came on and down we came,
And there she was, wagging her tail just the same;
A gentle, tiny girl, she would run and hop,
Chasing an invisible bone, one ear would lop
Over the side, while the other would stand
On end, to hear for invaders to "her private land."

Training a dog named TRIX wasn't an easy job:
At heel or lying down, then bursting into the mob
Of people at the door, just looking for a friend,
Racing by pairs of feet, until by mine she'd end;
Running down the stairs and back up to see
Outside, then dinner calls, and racing back to me;
She's bury bones under dirt not there and drop,
With ears flopped and tail going, upon me with a plop.

The tiny grey head soon turned white, the small
Toned ears became black and the body was tall;
The paws grew bigger, the legs grew strong,
The eyes grew softer - and she wagged her tail all along;
We'd play together, talk, or go for a walk,
In wintertime snow, plowing thru on the stalk,
For any unknown thing: I loved her so,
But I didn't know how much 'till she had to go.
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Submitted on May 08, 2015

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Donald Loudon Claim this poet

I started to write because of the great feeling of release, and being able to do something of my own that I enjoyed. Since then, writing has become a way of life for me, and I enjoy it thoroughly. I write about things I feel strongly and or know a lot about. more…

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