The Anxious Book Worm

We’d wander up to Windle, just us three on our way, 

with Millie trotting proudly, ready to seize the day.

We’d stop for a ham croissant, a little treat to share, 

while her hopeful eyes would follow every crumb that lingered there.

We’d visit Nan and Grandad, fresh flowers held with care, 

pausing for a quiet moment, feeling close to them there.

The weather would be gentle, warm but never too hot,

the kind of day that feels like home, the kind that’s not forgot.

Her little legs grew slower as the years rolled gently by,

but her love of food stayed youthful, and her appetite stayed high.

Then came the treasured puppacino, her favourite thing by far,

cream already on her whiskers before we’d walked too far.

It covered all her little mush, she’d gulp it down in one,

as though she’d never eaten before, and thought it was tremendous fun.

Sometimes her bones would ache a bit, and she’d slow along the way,

so Ben would scoop her up with love and carry her that day.

Home again we’d gently go, her paws washed clean and neat,

a brush to smooth her silky fur, cold water as a treat.

Then up onto the sofa, her cosy afternoon throne, where she’d curl up safe and happy, never wanting to be alone.

And there she’d sleep for hours, dreaming softly through the day,

while we’d smile watching over her in that familiar way.

I’ll always hold those moments close, the simple things we knew,

for they never felt important then, yet now they carry me through.

Because it wasn’t grand adventures that made our hearts so full,

it was walks to Windle, flowers, cream, and a little dog we loved with all.

And though these days are harder now, and tears still sometimes start,

those ordinary mornings live forever in our heart.