Old Man and his Dog
She’s always loved the outdoors,
And he’s always loved to work.
Coming up on another winter,
Her hind legs are drawing up,
Turning outward, showing her age.
Seventy-five years are changing his hands too,
Turning them into strange shapes,
Making them more difficult to use.
Summer was easy on them,
But the cold is coming
And an icy wind is hard on old bones.
Another year of working outside for him,
Seems like a long stretch;
Maybe he should finally retire.
And maybe she is too old
To spend her nights on the porch or in the backyard
That she prefers – maybe it’s time to lie by the fire.
But to both of them,
Seems like giving up to do either,
Like another step closer to dying –
That’ll probably keep him working all winter:
The fear of what happens when he stops trying.
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