There’s a lovely little pub across the field
where I walk my dog,
a selection of draft ales, a large beer garden
and a glass jar of dog treats at the end of the bar.
I often stop for a pint and a sit.
The dog always gets a lot of attention.
Children stop running around the grass
to ask if they can stroke my dog.
As they pat him, my dog gives me a look,
implying he definitely deserves a treat after this,
for being a good boy.
A lad in a baseball cap stumbles up to our table,
slurring that my dog is ‘an absolute legend’
and tickles his ear before staggering away.
People passing on the way to the bar,
pause and fuss over the dog.
They ask his name and how old he is,
and enthuse about how he is so well behaved.
He’s a proper pub dog, I say, he loves it here,
flaking out on the grass, watching the world go by.
They tell me about the dog they had,
that they lost recently,
how they become part of the family,
and how it breaks your heart
when you have to say good-bye.
I nod and try not to think about that day.
On my next trip to the bar
I pick up a few extra treats for my boy.