How long ’til I stop
Checking behind me for my
faithful dog shadow?
.
Good bye Dusty Dog.
poem- good dog haiku February 13, 2015
How long ’til I stop
Checking behind me for my
faithful dog shadow?
.
Good bye Dusty Dog.
poem- last day February 12, 2015
Now begins
your last twenty-four hours.
You are curled on a fuzzy blanket
that you settled onto with a groan
and a long sigh.
You’re catching up on the sleep you missed
between 2 a.m. and 7 a.m. when
you cried and howled and paced.
You struggle to rise and follow me
as I move through the house, still my shadow
even though it hurts to move.
You still wag your tail
though your hips cause you pain.
You still look up trustingly
with those cloudy white eyes,
so I will do my painful duty,
and give you sleep, free from pain.
After your final vet appointment,
tomorrow at this time.
I will bury you in the back yard
beside your brother, and we will weep
over the loss of another faithful dog
who shadowed us
with devotion.
.
poem- waiting February 11, 2015
2:50 a.m.
I’m getting to bed at a decent hour for once
(well, decent for me).
I let out the dogs.
One’s back in a minute, tail wagging,
as he heads to his bowl for a quick snack.
No sign of dog two.
I whistle.
I call.
Were I bi-pedal, I would put on boots
go in the back yard and bring him in,
but I’m mono-pedal and the office chair
isn’t up for a snowy back yard
never mind the slope I’d never get up.
So I’m waiting.
and waiting
and waiting.
This dog does this a lot
at 3 a.m.
Never at 1 a.m.
or 4 a.m.
What’s that about?
At 3:30, I shut out all the lights
and decide he can sleep on the porch.
until hubby get’s up at 5:00.
Then I see a ghostly shape on the other side of the glass door.
Oh, hello. You’re back already? Grrr.
I steer him down the hall, and he hops up on my bed
with wet, dirty feet. I growl, and smack his butt.
I pick up dog one, who has dry feet, is about to die,
and pees promptly when I put him out and then returns to the door.
In the dark, dog two lies on the dog pillow and I hear cats yowling.
In my bedroom.
In his belly.
Mewling, and yowling, and squeaking, and meowing.
He shifts uncomfortably.
His stomach gurgles and growls.
He can have breakfast later.
I’m going to sleep with the good dog
at my feet.
.
.
(No. He didn’t really eat cats, despite what it sounded like).
poem-old dog February 4, 2015
You groan in your bed
shifting to find a comfortable spot.
You struggle to rise on those
sore back legs.
You fall over avoiding
chair legs.
You ignore your dinner
as if eating is too much effort.
You don’t hear people when
they come to the door.
You go out to toilet,
but poop as you come in.
You strain to see me
through clouded eyes.
But you wag your tail
when you recognise me
and bring me a toy to tug.
You follow me whenever I move,
just wanting to be with me.
You make me stare down
hard decisions.
dear old dog.
.
.
.
2015 is not my favourite year.
Dusty Dog’s 17th birthday is in August, but I don’t think he’s going to see it.
poem- canine scheming January 29, 2015
In the hallway
between kitchen and bedrooms
the chef knife catches the light.
Which poodle is plotting
nefarious exploits?
Should we be locking
bedroom doors at night?
poem- companionable November 29, 2014
I wake to
the gentle snores
and the warm back
of my canine companion,
whose black eyes blink
and sleepy tail thumps once
as I caress his white wooly side.
poem- pacing October 3, 2014
You’re pacing
a circuitous route
from living room
through kitchen,
pausing each time to pass
to stare meaningfully at me
as I ignore your
four feet. You’ve been fed,
you’ve been out.
I don’t have time for the fussing.
I have work to do.
Curl up, rest your head on my feet.
We can pick up the pace
together, tomorrow.
poem-lying September 21, 2014
I wake
to feel you lying
stretched along
the length of me.
I reach out my hand
and find not flesh
but fur.
You have been replaced
by canine devotion.
.
.
.
.
This is an interesting example of ‘living poetry.’ People ask how I can come up with a poem every day, and I say I see them everywhere. This morning, completely dazed with sleep, this happened, I muzzily composed this poem as I reflected on the surprise, and then fell back to sleep. When I finally got up, there it was, ready to share.
poem-crow on a hot tin roof August 21, 2014
There’s a crow
on the hot tin roof
of our shed,
tap dancing
and glancing around
the yard
in search of applause.
The dogs catch his eye
but turn away,
well acquainted
with the vain ways
of crows.
Shawn L. Bird 