I remember you the day we got you;
you wailed all the way home.
Each speed bump was a horror,
each turn a torturous swaying.
We put you in the living room
with everything closed off.
It took you a while to come out –
to realise we had stopped.
For the first day I sat with you
took my laptop down and worked
in the living room whilst you
hid under the sofa.
Then you changed; hid under the table,
sometimes looked around more,
and soon we opened the door
to show you the rest of your demesne.
Each step then was so small
and yet so big all at once.
Now look at you; you’re doing things
you’ve never done before.
I remember the day we let you outside
where you bounded up to the door
and lifted your head and sniffed
and drank in the bounty of freedom.
And now I look at this happy and brave
and adventurous and clever little girl,
who once wouldn’t come out of hiding
and now watches for us coming home.
And I remember the moment in the shelter
where I didn’t know whether to get you
and thank everything that I have
that he told me that we should.