My Prairie Dog Died Today
My Prairie dog died today.
I never held him close in my arms, or heard his excited 'yahoo' when I came home from work.
But my prairie dog died today.
She never took treats from my hand, or slept in my bed at night.
But my prairie dog died today.
He lived in a field where he played in the sunshine, and dug holes to his heart's content.
She ate grass, and dandelions, and chased butterflies.
He played tag with his brothers and sisters, and traded kisses with his mother.
She liked to roll in the dirt, and would sit very still while her mother groomed her fur.
My prairie dog died today.
He was sitting inside his burrow when the poison was poured into the hole.
A newspaper shoved into the opening, weighted by a shovel of dirt blocked his escape, and he drowned in his own blood.
My prairie dog died today.
She and her family sat huddled and frightened in their nest when the
bulldozers rolled over their field, crushing them in their homes.
My prairie dog died today, and I did nothing to save him.
"Can't you see what they're doing?" people cried. "Stop them!".
'It's not my land.'
"Then move them. Hurry!"
'I have no place to take them'.
"They're dying! DO SOMETHING!"
'I...can't.'
© 2001 Becky Deck
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