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.
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.
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.
Whenever the bowl
is boring, bland, stale , stodgy.
I bring out
those frisky little pellets
zest and zing
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
the muck and merriment
The great magician
lived behind us in the eighties
walked around in his top hat and cloak
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.
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
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'
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
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.
I’ve written another poem about a cat.
I promised myself I wouldn’t do that,
But this one leapt upon the page
and as usual took centre stage;
the other poems took off and scurried,
looking set upon and rather harried.
There was one about a lecherous leer —
that would have to wait another year;
and one about my old dog Trigger
who humped his mattress with manly vigour.
So may things about which to write
but this cat poem purrs with delight.
Penny has a new pet.
A Labrador called Lucky.
It’s what she always wanted.
He sits, jumps and spins around
and chases after frisbees.
Penny takes him for long walks
on the screen.
When he’s tired Penny puts him to bed.
His kennel is a black microchip.
When Penny slips it in the game console
Lucky comes out to play.
He woofs with delight and rubs
his snowy head against the screen.
Penny would love to cuddle him.
pic courtesy of Wikimedia Commons