Across Route 52

Late one summer afternoon,

Our farmer neighbor Howard Utter,

Drove up to our gate in his red Ford truck,

And cam ein holding a leather collar.

And looking at me said to my dad,

I’m sorry to say your dog is dead,

I found him in a ditch on the side of the road,

Just across from camp Alamar.

 

My loving dog came home each night,

Who during the day was free to roam,

Through the woods and fields if I was out,

Still more adventurous when alone,

And doubtless that is how he found,

Grubby fingers of city kids,

Who could not leave well enough alone,

And did not know the country law,

Never feed another’s dog.

 

(Damn you all I said to myself,

Damn you to hell Camp Alamar.)

 

Don’t worry son Howard said,

I had a shovel in the truck,

And buried him both deep and wide,

Where no dank rain would wet his hide,

Nor birds of prey along the road,

Across the way from Alamar.