Bella

the breeze is slurping my face

like Bella’s pink dog tongue

when sick, I slumped on the sofa

Houdini

Houdini
 
She’s the Houdini of hounds

getting in and out of tight spaces .

Her piece de resistance ?
The burying-in-the-blanket trick .

Performed while we’re asleep .

The props ?

A wicker basket with ground sheet
and blanket .

The technique ?

A mystery BUT
she wraps herself inside that blanket —
a hot dog —
against the cold .

In the morning we go out eyes
wide with amazement .

At the sound of biscuits sprinkled
in the bowl
she extricates herself
 
from her woolen prison
faster than Houdini
from his padlock and chains .
 
 

They See Ghosts

I was talking to my rarely glimpsed neighbour who was out the front raking the leaves.

We chewed the fat for a while

and then I asked him about Gus, his elderly Jack Russel.

He doesn’t annoy you. does he? he asked.

Not at all, I said. I’m a dog person.

Well, he annoys the hell out of me, he said. The other day he was barking at the dining room wall and wouldn’t stop. There was nothing there.

Apparently, they see ghosts, I said. Even in the dark.

He stopped raking.

Or he has dementia? He offered.

Wow! I said. That would open a can of worms. Think how many documented ghost sightings could be put down to dementia.

People don’t bark at walls, he said.

Not even in they’re barking mad ? I asked.

We both laughed uneasily.

Inside, the dog began barking again.

Home

It’s funny I saw that other place as Home

& not my place; but now things have unravelled

I see my own place anew; love its peace, its warmth,

its acceptance of who I am,

the quirky writer with special needs,

that I can move freely within its borders,

its little backyard big as the other’s big yard.

Home is the dog that wags its tail when it sees you.

The Difference Between

I was talking to our Hobbo the other day about scratching posts and whether his black Labrador, Dauphy had one and Hobbo retorted, no, but he has a snoring spot.

And I thought: that’s the difference between cats and dogs. Cats have scratching posts, dogs don’t. It seems a little discriminatory.

Cats can work off their frustrations on a post. What’s a dog supposed to do? Max, my granddaughter’s dog, had the answer. Whenever he got frustrated, he would hump his mattress. Not an edifying sight, but it worked for Max.

He was placid as a puddle after that.

Maybe that’s the answer for human beans too. Instead of walloping walls,  pummeling pillows or brawling with our besties, we could simply hump our mattress. Or find a snoring spot.

Bring Out the Sultanas

Whenever the bowl

is boring, bland, stale , stodgy.

I bring out

the sultanas,

those frisky little pellets

of goodness,

that add

zest and zing

to cereal

that put the sing

in snap, crackle, ‘n’ pop

nifty little metaphors for writing

that needs an uplift

a whiff of lightness.

that needs to find its funny bone.

open up its Id,

roll like a dog

in

the muck and merriment

of language

The Great Magician

The great magician

lived behind us in the eighties

walked around in his top hat and cloak

practising

making rabbits disappear.

Once he poked his head

over the fence and asked

had we seen one of his rabbits?

I said I hadn’t.

But later

I discovered

by the cabbage patch

a hole in the fence,

where a rabbit had scraped under

and bits of fur in the yard.

We had a dog back then.

He was a bit of a magician himself.

He could make a rabbit disappear too.

Forget Eric and Ernie

Forget Eric and Ernie

Disregard Bing and Bob

There’s a new comedy duo

and they’re doing a great job

They’re funnier than Stan & Ollie

and even Bud & Lou

They’re Hobbo and his dog, Dauphy

wisdom with laughter too

Hobbo’s a retired bus driver

Dauphy a French lab

together they write droll poetry

and have a good chin wag

So do yourself a favour

as Adam Ant would say

and drop by their website

to see what they’re up to today

google 'Hobbo's poems'

Rumpole

This is Rumpole.

Rumpole is a plaster of Paris statue of a real dog that wandered away nine years ago and never came back.

We tell tales of where he might have gone, what mischief he got up to and the puppies he might have sired.

We still think one day he will find his way back home which is why we leave the side gate open.

Meanwhile the statue is comforting. We know he’s not really there

But every Halloween he cocks his leg and pisses on the pavers to remind us he still is

Max and the Great Big Grin

This is Max.

The birthday boy.

He was 10 years old the other day.

Say happy birthday to Max.

He’s my grand-daughter’s dog.

A lovely, well behaved Labrador.

But recently Max did a Houdini.

Somehow he got out and went for a wander.

When my grand-daughter got home she looked everywhere and began to get anxious. Max has ID on his collar but their house abuts an 80 k zone.

Then a woman phoned.

Your dog is in my backyard, she said. He’s fine.

When she picked Max up he had a great big grin on his face.

What you been up to, Max? she asked.

But Max kept mum.

It must have been good because Max slept very soundly that night and that great big grin was still on his face.