Jake

I took a ride to the seaside

And remembered we came here once.

You poked your long face through the rusting, bleeding sea wall bars as if to say, what is this place?

You didn't take to the dishwater-coloured sea, you dipped a claw as the foaming tide snapped at your paws, but there was a glimmer of wonder in those big hazelnut eyes.

And we set you free on the sand and you gambolled and lolloped and sped and made tracks and playfully protected your precious ball from jealous interlopers and spied a beached jellyfish and barked and danced and pranced at the unknown until you flopped down on the shore and said, no more, I'm spent.

It was a slow, weary walk to the car. I lifted you into the boot, reassured it wasn't far, and you snored a beautiful guttural, growling symphony all the way home. We vowed to do it again, but dear Jake we didn't know we would never get to be so carefree and foolish like then.

I can see you now though, briefly, crouched sphinx-like, waiting for the throw, then taking off into the low hanging, now parting clouds over the firth for one last time knowing you were loved, unconditionally.

You're ashes on the water now, somewhere far away, yet still here in all that I see and do, I'll catch you soon, yeah? One day.

I had to let you go.