Molly Poem

I had a Jack Russell.
Nasty little thing,
Feisty they said.
Not really huggy.

When the snow drifted on the deck,
She liked a little throw to get her going,
Hurdling out to do her duty.
One morning she sunk there.

In late spring, she walked in circles,
As she stole onions from the garden.
In summer we carried her;
She looked at us, pissed.

I held her at the vet’s,
Then much longer.
We buried her deep with an onion
That continually sprouts.