Monty

I remember how black he was;
no white blaze, just blackness
and amber eyes.

Sometimes they flashed fire
and he would lash out snarling.
Mostly though he was benign;
content to idle away his days
waiting for night to hunt
or go courting.

Sometimes he would be gone
for days, we didn’t worry he always
came home;

then, he didn’t…
It seemed he would never return,
his absence like a cloud closing out the sun.

Then, all at once he was home
that memory haunts;
one empty eye socket,
one eye lying dried, shrivelled,
sightless against his bony cheek
and him lying across the doormat
dying, in the blackness.