we wanted him to be, and yet
he struck a pose on our front steps,
perusing distant fields.
Nor was he quite the Scottish writer
we would have him answer to,
although I’d bet he had his own
adventures to reveal.
He was a dog, we’ll give him that,
but nothing of the pedigree
some said he was —more terrier,
less cocka, mostly poo.
But you’re one for the ages, Walter,
living on in memories
for more than thirty years, and we’re
still calling out to you.
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