"I've never bought dog food in my life,"
said the old car park attendant. "No need.
All the ingredients are there on the road,
so she's never been denied a bloody good feed."
He told me of his three-mile journey to work and back,
stopping whenever he saw a dead pheasant or fox,
swiftly out of the car with a shovel, a fine art,
a quick scoop of the corpse into a plastic box.
Back to his kitchen to boil or roast,
freezer packed with home-cooked ready meals,
a dog that had no reliance on a tin-opening owner,
feasting on animals killed by vehicle wheels.