Every dog has its day

My dear old mum used to tell me
“Son, every dog has its day.”
Now in dog years, I am 343 years old,
but I still quietly sit on my mat
& wonder when it will come
& what it will be like
& as the shadows grow long
& the darkness draws in
You see, I have this sinking feeling
that it’s been and gone —
I wasn’t paying attention
& I missed it.

I put my head between my paws
& sleep a little more
& dream of dear old mum.

“There’s time, son, there’s time.”
That's what she’d say
and she’d ruffle between my ears
And I’d dream the day away.

From the well-thumbed pages of the Jolly Contrarian’s songbook