Three-legged Dog, Two-lane Blacktop For all he's half-blind, half-deaf, grey-muzzled and three-legged: the black lab's still game, a weathered monument to canine kind, homely, sociable, a match for the flannel-jacketed, ball-capped coot, the rotted pick-up and sway-backed farmhouse, as if a call was sent to Central Casting. But they're real folks, just neighbors, good for gossip and a cup of Joe. The lab delivers the slimy ball back to my daughter, faithful as a clock while we chat. His amputated gait is amazing fast, like proof-positive of pyramid power. When he starts to tire, he makes the girl chase. His sly smile slobbers. The coot humors my idiot know-all ways, seeing how I used to be a college boy before I was a dad. He'll tell you at length he's had worse for neighbors, give chapter and verse, with scatalogical refinements honed over seventy years of fine grudge-making--an oration splendid in its way as the King James Bible. But the dog has heard it all before. He has his own bones to pick. He drifts to the roadside, patiently points. If God loves old dogs, he'll bring down one last speeding out-of-state sedan. Poem © Dale Hobson. All rights reserved. Engraving © Greg Lago. All rights reserved.