“Belle 14 deaf mostly blind loves breakfast and dinner”

Belle at fourteen, her muzzle now gray,  
Ears tuned to silence, the world slipped away.  
Her sight, just a shadow, a faint, gentle blur—  
But oh, how she knows when it’s time to confer  
With the clink of a bowl or a crinkle of bag,  
She’ll find you by nose, never loiter nor lag.

At breakfast’s first promise, she pads ‘cross the floor,  
Tail waving, soft thumps against old wooden door.  
You call, she won’t hear—she follows her heart,  
Led by aromas, she knows where to start.  
A nuzzle, a sniffle, a warm hopeful glance,  
You scoop in her dinner, she circles, she prance.

She doesn’t chase balls, nor leap at the mail,  
But she dreams with her belly and wags with her tail.  
No squirrel escapes, no whistle is heard,  
But scrapings of kibble—now that’s her true word!  
Her world may be muffled, her eyes soft with years,  
But two meals a day bring her joy, bring her cheers.

So here’s to old Belle—deaf, blind, yes, and true.  
Her truths are in sniffles and everything new  
That’s dropped on the floor, that bounces, that spills  
In the kitchen where breakfast and dinner fulfill  
The heart of a friend who has weathered it all—  
Dear Belle, you still hear every crumb when it falls.

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