PIPPA MY JACK RUSSELL (1 April 1994 to 17 May 2008)
Pippa, a little dog, who is white with black and brown
Used to live upon a farm but now she stays in town
She grew up with the children and loved them both for sure
But now that they have left the home she is a little more mature
When she was a puppy – all those years ago
The days were long and sunny and all she did was grow
Now that she is older, not very much has changed
The garden has got smaller and a little rearranged
Her love has been a ball – of any size or form
As long as she could chase it – to her that was the norm
I remember how I took her to the Duzi river every day
Would hit the ball with all my might and look at her and say
“Go fetch your ball you little thing, run fetch it if you can”
Off she would run without a look at animal or man
Her sight was always perfect her smell was never wrong
With no deviation from the path she would run along
Before you could stop smiling or move two extra paces
The ball would be returned to you – it could have been the races!
When the heat became too much and the sun began to burn her
I would lob the ball up high and far - so that it landed in the river
Without a single thought of where she was going to land
She would run towards the jetty and leap across the sand
Her body stretched out like a spring – that was pulled too taut
Into the river she would jump after the ball we’d brought
I would hasten to the side, it was too steep, you see
For her to climb out on her own, I went down on my knee
Lifting her out by the scruff of her neck appeared a little cruel
But she never seemed to mind the pain, she was so very cool
As time passed by it became not safe to take her there alone
And so the ritual had to change – we had to stay at home
I bought an enamel baby bath and placed it on the grass
This became her swimming pool and in it she would bask
The game it changed from this time on and I was getting older
So I would sit upon a chair and have to lean on over
To take the ball that she would place inside my outstretched hand
And throw it against the wall where nearby she would stand
With her advancing years she would still begin to quiver
As the ball would strike the wall and rebound back to the giver
As fast as she was able she would pounce on it for sure
Then do a victory lap or two and return it for some more
Eventually when breath was short and she began to weary
Inside the pool she would jump – her head then she would bury
With ball in mouth and nose below the water I would hear
How bubbles broke the surface – I was that very near
When I got tired of throwing and ignored her for a while
She’d place the ball beside my feet and inch back and retire
Her eyes would stay alert for any movement that I made
And so she’d wait – anticipate – her interest didn’t fade
At this time she is all seventy-seven dog years old
Her sight is growing dimmer and she shivers with the cold
My prayer is that in heaven when she is called to rest
She will have a ball beside her – to do what she does best.
Nola Muller
April 2004
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