There is an open field not far away, perhaps
it was once a fruit orchard, hard to tell now.
In the back corner of the field sits an old red shed,
abandoned and slowly crumbling apart, year by year.
Amos and I used to visit that field, always enjoying it
as it changed with the seasons — Spring to Summer,
Autumn to Winter — he especially liked the snow.
We would always meander over to sniff around
the old shed as it collapsed in extreme slow motion,
maybe catch sight of a group of deer standing
by the treeline, silently observing us.
When Amos was a younger dog in his prime
he’d give the deer a merry chase, but as he aged
he just wandered on, minding his own business.
Someone eventually fenced off the entrance
to the field, and anyway Amos had grown
too old to go walking that far anymore.
Both of us had become like the old red shed
as we gradually crumbled apart, year by year.
The day Amos died, Mazie told me she saw him
running free, as happy as any dog could be.
Of all my memories of our times together,
I remember him running straight towards me
through the snow — it was a Christmas Day,
we were out walking over by the old red shed,
and he was as happy as any dog could be.