Willy

Willy the werewolf had a special trait
Now it wasn't something he would happily relate
To other werewolves who might casually ask -
It wasn't a prideful trait in which to gloriously bask
And the uniqueness simply was this:
All the fur he sprouted wasn't really his

It all began as a receding fur-line
Something unheard of among his kind
Yet before long Willy's fur came off in clumps
And his spirits spiralled down into the dumps
For if werewolves were protective of anything
It was their fur, long, black, luxuriously flowing

Willy could no longer go out like before
For hunting was no longer a pleasure but a chore
Who can savage and claw somebody
While at the same time hold in place a toupee?
And instead of screaming his prey laughed uncontrollably
For no one can take a bald werewolf seriously

Yet since he retained his strength and agility
He tried to salvage the remainder of his dignity
By taking up new and challenging occupations
At various disparate institutions
The first of which was a bouncer at Zouk
No real surprise though at this path he took

But as they say old habits often die hard
And Willy began to bite those who let down their guard
Yet as he bit the occasional thug
Soon Willy's blood was contaminated with drugs
Thus his job ended when a police raid was staged
And he ended unceremoniously up in a cage

When Willy escaped the idea of doing sports stuck in his mind
For by nature werewolves are the competitive kind
And in the sprint trials he broke all the records
Complacency was something he could well afford
But disqualification loomed - his true nature he couldn't fake
For unlike the others Willy competed on all four legs

After further failures Willy just simply gave up
And with his senses dulled and fangs no longer sharp
Willy huddled on a lonely street and cried
(If fully self-aware he would have been horrified)
His heart was shattered his spirit torn
There never was a werewolf quite so forlorn

Then a miracle happened, and not a moment too late -
A little homeless girl passed by that very minute
This girl, though poor and scruffy and not very old
Possessed a loving heart of solid gold
And when she heard poor Willy in his sorry state
To him she found herself gravitate

Fearless, she pattered forward and hugged Willy tight
A gesture which surely caused Willy fright
And in the calmest tones she simply said
"Don't cry Mr Balding Doggy, I'll find you a bed
Though I can't give you all that other doggies possess
Your company's all I want now, I confess!"

And now sometimes out of the corner of your eye
You'll spot a little street urchin go rushing by
Side by side with her new-found companion
Laughing and playing with complete abandon
And not once will you ever observe
The "dog's" almost complete lack of fur

This poem's special for me. I had a dog once, a Dalmatian cross-breed whose spots you could only see when he shed fur. And I think along the way, I grew to take him for granted, and failed to appreciate him while he was still around.

If I had him still, I think now would be a good time to pat him, and have him curl up at my feet.