He was black fluff, all squirm and yip

And not much bigger than a teddy bear.

Startled, he'd dive under the table,

Whether the flaps were up or down,

And curl up in the nest of legs.

He had a fierce eye for flies.

He kept watch on the ceiling

And would jump upwards from a standing start,

High as my shoulders,

As if on power-boosted springs

To snap at any pesky blighters buzzing round the lamp.

He grew, of course.

From a teddy bear to something like a sheep.

His voice broke. The squeaky yip

Became an eardrum-rattling 'woof!'

I felt through the soles of my feet.

His hiding place shrank to fairly snug

And then ridiculously small,

But still he dived for it at times of stress,

Nudging the chairs about, peopled or not,

Pounding our feet with his tail,  

While the cutlery danced and the gravy slopped.

Nothing stopped him.

When his fur was tipped with grey

He still leapt for flies, and just as high,

While we shouted, "No, Ben! No!"

And dived out of the way.

Now the flies buzz round in peace.

Nothing shakes our eardrums or our feet.

Spoons and gravy boat and chairs are still.

So still. Too still.