The Dog Star



Phoebe, the dog star.


(i) The joy of running.


A bolt from the blue,

A golden arrow streaking , skirting Newport bay

Effortlessly matching sand sail and surf.

A pimple, possibly canine, on the farthest horizon

was enough to take you away,

bullet running, wide pawed dancing.

Find the fiercest dog you could – and make it chase you!

You and Maisie rising and falling like dolphins

in the meadow sweet, long grass of summer.

In Wiltshire woods the intoxicating frustration of putting up deer,

glad running into the copses,

thundering through bramble and bracken,

off, into the dim distance.

Leaving us with the panicky emptiness of the long wait.

half an hour, maybe more,

then you would appear, purple tongue, seemingly a mile long,

hawking for breath, flat out on the green downs.


(ii) A wolf god.


Eyes, soul pooled,

kohl lined.

Anput, Egyptian dog princess,

Pharaoh dog, friend to Anubis.

Easy humoured,


strong willed and sublime.

Inscrutable, imperious,

Ready beauty,



(iii) The ghost dog.


Nothing here of your decline,

just the final, dreadful, sting.

Hot teared night, tumbling on your velvet snout.

Earth drenched, she sleeps, soft blanketed.

A grave peppered with violas and first daffodils.

Now, a ghost dog walking with us.

Through Pengelly woods, wintered, mulched and mudded.

Teifi Lakes spiced with snow.

The estuary, silvered, flat calm and kind.

The pine forest near Lampeter, muffled.

Is that you?

A shivering movement amidst the trees.

A backwards glance, somehow you fill the space.

A muted howl of greeting, a murmur on the breeze?


(iv) Someday.


We too will be scattered skywards,

dark skies and moonbeams,

flung afar.

And, out there,


awaits our Sirius,

burning bright.



our dog star.


Phoebe was a lurcher, saluki, greyhound cross. A Battersea Cats and Dogs rescue hound. A huge character, acknowledged as a beauty by pretty much everyone she met. She was really quite regal, did not offer her affection lightly, and had a wicked sense of humour and mischief. A dog, yes, but so very much more. She lifted and lightened our lives for some 15 years or so, and we miss her terribly.


This poem is the best I can do. 7/2/17. 


Post Script.

It has been said, “time heals all wounds.” I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.

Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy.


Phoebe and Maisie, Pengelly Woods, Pembrokeshire.

Dogs in woods


10 Comments on “The Dog Star”

  1. J.R.Mordey says:

    Hi Marc just opened my computer and saw Phoebe which brought tears to my eyes even before reading the poem.She was a very Special Dog whose presence gave out an aura of peace and calm,I for one will always miss her for so many reasons,I feel sure she will have walked over Rainbow Bridge with Bloss and Derek and enjoying each others company.
    Thank you for sharing her with us through this lovely poem.


  2. jean2371 says:

    I loved your poems about Phoebe and I can imagine how much you must be missing her.


  3. noelleg44 says:

    So sad but such loving and beautiful words. The wounds of our pets loss never really heal – I burst into tears telling someone about my dog Jeffrey, who died when I was 13. Phoebe is never gone as long as you have her in your heart.


  4. stew1e says:

    Vivid, immediate. Great impact, clever imagery. Moving!


  5. natmegevans says:

    You have made me cry and you will understand why. Your silver streak of a Phoebe raced through the undergrowth without leaving a print, while my bumbling bears tangled with brambles, making heavy work of the hills. They leave us and we try to follow, shouting after them, ‘We loved you so much.’ Like kites, their spirits fly above us, dipping down to our level, only to shoot away again, free, painless and restored.


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