Blackie Poem by Terry Hoffman

Blackie was my firstest dog
when I was five years old.
He arrived in Daddy's coat
to keep him from the cold.

The smallest thing I'd ever seen,
snug in my Daddy's hand,
but wanting to make friends with me;
that was his demand.

There doubtless was some Lab in him;
I didn't give a hoot.
He had a blaze upon his chest
and a tiny little boot.

I loved him more than life itself,
spent every day with him.
We roamed around the world so wide
until the sun was dim.

We played all sorts of funny games
I'd make up in my head.
One time he'd be my might steed,
at other times, he led.

Then one day late in the fall,
back home he dragged himself.
He'd a run-in with a car;
I was beside myself.

When I arose the foll'wing day,
my Blackie, he was dead.
He was all of twelve years old,
but what a life he led.

He nurtured me through growing years,
always was my friend.
I thought he'd always stay be me,
but, then, all things must end.

I had to go to school that day,
but I couldn't stay.
I cried and cried, but couldn't cope
My feet were made of clay.