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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
All Entries 1997 - 2002
All Entries 2002
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Published by Susan on 07/30/2003 (3723 reads)
Snooky was a cocker bitch...

Snooky was a cocker bitch,
(Of course I had her spayed),
Devoted to me to a pitch
I never met in maid.
And every evening, prompt at six,
She'd stare up at the clock,
And fetch her leash for me to fix,
                         To take a walk.
Then after strolling round a bit
I'd sit down in the park,
And when my pipe was snugly lit,
Smoke on till after dark.
Always  the same worn bench I'd choose,
And had for months of days,
For I'm a cove who loves to muse,
                         Routine my ways.
And then one eve in sunset glow
I sought my usual bench,
But Snooky would not sit, although
I gave he leash a wrench.
She backed, and howled and pulled away,
Such sudden strength she had:
I must admit, in some queer way
                         I thought her mad.
Ah well! I let it go at that,
And how that pup was pleased!
When on another bench I sat,
She jumped upon my knees,
And licked my face and yelped with glee . . .
Then - then a blinding flash!
I heard, as hot earth spattered me,
                         A rending crash.
I should have said - 'twas in the War,
When bombs fell every night;
And so I stared with horror for
I saw a sorry sight.
With Snooky licking at my face,
My usual bench, I found
Had gone, and gaping in its place
                        Was charnel ground.
I've written dog yarns in my time,
(Most doggerel, I guess);
But this I've made into a rhyme,
With feeling, I confess.
My word may not be worth a cuss,
Yet this my tale is true:
Dogs have a sense unknown to us,
                        And Snooky knew.

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