Horton J. Pig Dog

I never knew a dog the world conspired so much against:
the body of a hunting hound, his legs were as short as
a dachshund's, complicated by a case of rickets, leaving
his joints twisted, painful in the frost or damp. And yet,
they had once saved his life: hit by a car, he had been
short enough to shuffle under the bumper & so escaped the fate
of a larger dog. But even as a pup, in the tan, pig-looking
face captured in the photo that gave rise to his last name,
he seemed fully conscious that things would only get worse.
He was wasn't old, we had him only seven years, but the long
winters left him each year more worn out, turning grey-haired,
limping. Irritable, and now cared for by my brother,
he clawed my niece and my sister in-law had had enough.
At the vet's, walking to the pound, he turned
to my brother, knowing. Caged, Horton J. Pig Dog waited
as he always had, sitting on one buttock, a paw bent awkward,
his head erect.