When I was young,
I loved dogs with a fierce, burning passion.
Dreams so big they spilled onto paper-
letters to the RSPCA,
plans for kennels where no dog would be lonely,
where sadness would be banished by love.
Sometimes, kindness replied.
Heavy packages of pamphlets arrived like treasure,
and I would catalogue each leaflet,
rewrite facts into notebooks,
create posters with sad-eyed strays,
lay them out on the garden rug,
hoping someone might stop,
might care.
I begged Mum for a dog,
tried every angle that might clinch the deal.
One day, persuaded by her latest love interest,
she agreed.
Jess came into my life when I was eleven.
She was small, black and white,
“A Jack Russell on stilts,” someone said.
To me, she was perfect.
An angel sent with fur and heartbeat,
knowing exactly what I needed.
Every hour not spent at school
was spent loving her,
training her,
buying toys with pocket money.
My arms found her in the dark of night.
As I grew older, my dreams changed.
I never opened that kennel,
but I saved one dog.
And in return,
she saved me.
