Praise of a collie - Norman MacCaig

She was a small dog, neat and fluid –
Even her conversation was tiny:
She greeted you with bow, never bow-wow.

Her sons stood monumentally over her
But did what she told them. Each grew grizzled
Till he seemed he was his own mother’s grandfather.

Once, gathering sheep on a showery day,
I remarked how dry she was. Pollóchan said ‘Ah,
It would take a very accurate drop to hit Lassie.’ 

She sailed in the dinghy like a proper sea-dog.
Where’s a burn? – she’s first on the other side.
She flowed through fences like a piece of black wind.

But suddenly she was old and sick and crippled . . .
I grieved for Pollóchan when he took her a stroll
And put his gun to the back of her head.