Newspaper Dog

This morning, trotting to the park,

We detoured past the kiosk.

From way up high there came a bark

I knew canine was near us!

I couldn’t see (I’m one foot tall)

But I could smell some fur,

So shuffled back - tried not to fall -

And guess, just guess at what I saw?

A giant dog of shaggy grey

Sat just in front of Heat.

He was so tall (I have to say,

He might’ve had a seat).

I struck up chat and asked him what

He liked to read himself,

He pointed at The Guardian

Then plucked one off the shelf

And rifled through and mentioned that

He was a vocal lefty.

He asked me if I’d take one but

I said it was too hefty.

I asked why if he felt so left

He sat on Pete’s right hand,

He barked something about

Having more room on that side

But to be honest, by then, my

Neck was strained

From craning up at him

So I just left him to it.

Cat

I see you.

You are in the box,

The one on the table.

The small brown one

Which originally held

Nothing in particular

Now holds you.

It looks a tight squeeze

But then you have curled

Yourself into smaller spots:

Coiled yourself onto the warm

Tip of the ironing board,

Folded up inside the tumble drier,

Buried your head in scarves and

Tucked four paws and a tight little

Body behind one banana in

The fruit bowl.

Sometimes I wish I, too,

Like you,

Were a Cat, with

Jellybean toes and

Wise, marble eyes.

I would not be pulled

On a string but pull

Myself through flaps

And onto laps,

And when I purred

They would tickle my

Chin and smile.

But then I notice that

Your bowl is smaller than

Mine. I grin down on your

high box, stretch paws out

On my rug,

And nap.

Man’s Best Friend

I have those days when I feel small

And no one knows I’m here at all;

When people step on top of me

As if my face they cannot see

(Almost as if I am not here,

I do not live, I am but air).

I may be small, I may be white,

But does that mean I don’t feel slights

Against my fluffy, furry self?

Please, please don’t leave me by myself!

I know I’m little - oh, so wee -

And that there is not much of me,

I know that I can’t jump so high

Or reach the table, touch the sky,

Yet if you look into my eyes

I think you’ll find a soul inside.

A soul that is so much like yours

(Even though I walk on fours),

One that sings when it is glad

And one which frowns when it gets sad.

So when you pat me on the head -

Or fluff the pillows in my bed -

I feel so giddy I could fly

And reach the table, touch the sky!

So, really - I think you will find -

There’s little between you and I.

The only difference I can spot

Is one which (for you) ain’t so hot.

It makes my tail just wag and wag:

You carry my poo in a bag.

Mr Squirrel, My Old Friend

Everyone makes such a fuss

Of you, you swine, but it’s a bluff!

I see right through your auburn hue,

Can tell what mischief you’re up to...

You scamper, pause and scramble up

The tree trunk till you reach the top,

And there you perch. “So cute!”, they think,

But here’s the truth - it’s not so pink:

You’re mean and scratchy, much too fast,

That speed ain’t normal, whizzing past

My nose before I’ve time to ponder

How to catch you for my supper.

Throwing conkers from on high -

Make believe they’re from the sky.

You’ve bashed and bruised me once or twice,

I’ll tell you now; it don’t feel nice.

One clocked my tail, my funny bone,

And had me limping all’way home.

I spy you tossing nuts at kids

And tripping them with hidden sticks.

You’ve got that mean glint in your eye

(I know you laugh when babies cry).

You cheat when we play chase-about;

I can’t climb trees, you know that now.

And yet you do insist on hiding

Where you know I’ll never find you.

Spoilsport (for that’s all you are),

Your attitude won’t get you far.

How’d you like it if I ran

Into my house when things got fun?

To my bed so warm and cosy,

Feeling really, mighty toasty,

And pressed my nose against the glass

To smirk at you in that cold park?

You’d hate it, that’s what, let me tell you,

It’s not nice when people tease you.

Nibbling nuts like royalty,

How d’you think that feels, to me?

So next time that you shoot me evils

From your high branch, tossing pebbles,

Remember now, the truth, beware:

You’re just a rat with better hair.

Longing. Or, Ode To An Abandoning Mother.

You left me here, I don’t know why

(Without tear ducts, I cannot cry).

I’m not sure when you will be home

To play with me, to give me bones.

The others are alright, I guess,

But know it’s you I love the best

And when you’re lost, I feel so blue;

I mope around and wait for you.

I sniff the bed where we both lie

And gaze upon the midnight sky

While waiting for our moonlit walk

When you and I have such nice talks.

My food tastes bland, my water dry,

Time never, ever, ever flies.

I’m at a loss for where you’ve gone

Or why you left me on my own.

Since I can’t speak the same as you

I guess there’s little I can do

To find out when you will be back here

To rub my belly, scratch my ear.

The others tell me not to fret,

They treat me kind, they do their best,

They take me on my daily walks

And feed me treats and read me books.

Some days another lady comes

And with her I do have some fun

For she has others just like me -

We play and sniff and bark at trees.

Cat’s still here, we are still pals,

We snooze together in the house

Where we both used to snooze with you.

The Loud One, she now naps here, too.

She’s very good, she does not fuss

When she gets woken up by us;

By late night growling, Cat-on-face,

Hair all over every place.

She’s nice to me, they all four are

(Plus, I don’t miss riding in that car).

But none of them sing me your songs,

When are you home? I hope, not long.

Abandonment

They say history repeats itself and, oh, my, how right they were. Like that old bitch of a canine mother did some years ago, now my human mother has abandoned me.

She walked out of the front door almost two weeks ago, leaving me in the questionably capable paws of the remaining members of this family. She proffered neither a forwarding address (postal, email or otherwise) nor a note. Anyway, even if she had left something, I wouldn't've been able to read it, because I'm a bloody dog.

So, in order to prepare for the next time this happens - and, knowing this wonky family, again it shall happen, mark my woof - I have taught myself to read. And to write.

Naturally, with literacy comes great responsibility. I was never one to squander barks, choosing instead to whittle them into something textured, meaningful and complete. So I shall not be one to waste my words, either.

No ball-on-rope chit-chat for me; poetry is my fetching schtick.

See you by the low water fountain,

Daisy: Poet Dog.