My best friend

A Poem by James Graham

A poem about my best friend

My best friend

She was always there for me, every time I needed her, and even though she never spoke, her presence was more comfort than any word could ever be.

With her keen sense of smell, she could always sniff out trouble, and she was not above begging for her food.

Whenever I came home, I knew what to expect; a full body wagging back and forth, tail thumping against anything in its way. Kisses in bunches, and a big powerful snout working to recognize any new scents I may have brought with me. Perhaps even a freshly torn up newspaper or magazine as well. Though, her apologies always seemed sincere.

When she was young, she always received love, from everyone she met. She always drew a crowd, everywhere she went, girls would fawn, and men would ruffle her fur. Her response was always the same, a wagging tail, a cold moist nose, and plenty of big, wet, kisses.

I would gladly clean any mess, or replace any furnishing, just to see her again.

She died as she lived, loyally.

When I had pups of my own, she never grew jealous, she accepted them into her pack willingly, cared for them as her own.

I never held much stock in home security; I lived in a safe enough place.

Or so I had believed. Until I awoke one night, to a thunderous report, I jumped up and ran down the hall, I heard the kids screaming, and two more loud claps, when I arrived on the scene, nothing was to be done, except comfort my children, and weep for my best friend, because, there she lay motionless, seemingly asleep. Except for the wounds on her, spilling her life upon the floor.

Though not all the blood was hers, she succeeded where I had failed. She took the would-be robber with her, and I couldn’t have asked for more.

For her pack, she willingly gave her life. Rare is such a friendship forged, such as we had. How many people in the world would do as she did?

Some named her a bulldog, to me she was a hero, and the best friend a man could have.