Oh, I will never forget Palomo,
black-spotted Dalmatian who came every
now and then to bark and get some viand
leftovers before lunch as he goes to
market; he'd do a few tricks for us like
stand on his hind legs, pretend his human.
He's someone else's dog really but he
pays us a visit like the friend who comes
for coffee to share some thoughts on a bit
of politics, history, relations,
except that he's a dog. Until one day
somebody rushed to the house, "Palomo's
been poisoned!" Palomo walked to our yard,
he's making strange noises, his mouth dripping
with bubbles, and he looked at us as if
begging us to do something. Someone said
make him drink Coke with sugar. My Grandpa
obliged, held Palomo by his neck and
poured the concoction on his mouth, but poor
Palomo laid down sideways on the ground.
My Grandpa wept as he held Palomo,
who took his last breathe shortly. I touched his
soft fur to say goodbye. Wet eyes staring
on blank space. Ah, this happened 40 years
ago; I sob like t'was this afternoon.
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