They seem to be a bit of a theme, given I’ve just posted the start of my novel in posts that is inspired by dogs. A while back I wrote this poem, having watched my then dog Blitz do his doggy thing. It’s a bit, well, scatological. Anyway see if it registers with you.
My dog really, really doesn’t like to crap on tarmac.
He holds himself on York stone,
Gravel sets his knees a’tremble
And decking acts as a constipator.
But a bit of mud, or better grass or leaves,
And he doesn’t hold back.
Then he runs away,
Sort of ashamed.
Unlike when he wees;
Then he stays to make sure he’s covered
Whatever smell was there before.
Little spurts really, like aftershave, placed carefully to cover the pongy bits.
Sometimes, when he’s checking the sniffs
To decide if it’s worth using up his
He gets one that really hits the spot.
He’ll dribble and even lick it.
Brut for dogs.
Can you imagine the outcry
If we let our offspring lick a stranger’s scent?
The health and safety implications
The wise commission to report,
The underemployed medics
To sit on daytime TV sofas and pontificate
On the physiological dangers of permitting licking
And the psychological threats of stopping licking:
Careers are founded on less.
Sniffing is an art form, requiring a particular angle of approach
Which is really not possible when on the lead.
It’s probably why he doesn’t like meeting other dogs when he’s on the lead;
It’s difficult to say hello properly if you’re constrained,
Like shaking hands with handcuffs on.
How can you circle, sniff the balls (or whatever)
Then go end to end.
Checking for today’s perfume,
Noses plugged into each other’s socket.
I often wonder what they mean when they say:
‘It’s a dog’s life’.
Good for them, I say;
Me, I always preferred shaking hands.
Not sure if this counts but I’m linking to Linda’s JusJoJan prompt. Neat idea Linda.