Taffy Goes Golfing Poem by Greg Gaul

Taffy and I walk together
finding golf balls in the heather.
A true friend as we slog around
a best partner so I have found.
Wanting my dog to have a proper name
in line with respect for this noble game.
Named for rotund William Howard Taft
a golfing president that sounded apt.
Though a pedigree mongrel hound
we share moments that are profound.

Off we go to our little town course
Taffy watches as balls hit the gorse.
Traversed the front in level par
felt a tinge of confidence thus far.
Breezing the back with a birdie or two
misses catching up, maybe coming due.
Tensing Taffy sniffs birds of prey
looming ravens, an omen they say.
The last before me, the count at three
can I shoot my age, will it ever be?

Taffy and I stood staring at the hole
needing an up 'n down to make my goal.
Set up for the chip with breath quicken
Jumpy, trembling as I struck it thin.
A shadowy being leapt from the right
Taffy had snatched my shot mid flight!
Then he dropped it right next to the cup
I stepped in quick and cleaned it up.
From now on, no matter how I play
Taffy and I will have this one day!