The cook does mutter
About the missing butter,
While the dog licks his lips
And eyes up the chips …
—
Yesterday (25 March), I found my guide dog Trigger with his nose in a tub of butter. I had heard a crash in the kitchen earlier. however, on investigating and there appearing to be nothing amiss, I returned to the living room, until the sound of my hungry canine tucking into a tub of butter reached my ears!
There was a young man called Stone
Who stole his dog’s bone.
The dog did howl,
Then, with a growl,
He ate his master’s phone!
My head full
Of dull
Thought.
Then the ball you caught
And waving your tail
Did derail
My introspection.
How can I suffer dejection
When I recollect your playful snort
And the ball you caught?
My dog yelps in his sleep.
Can a canine weep?
And what thoughts of joy or pain
Pass through his sleeping brain?
In an exstasy of sound and smell
You dwell.
The freshly roasted chicken, just out of reach is sheer hell
To my friend
Who’s end
Is food and play.
Your day
Will not be so long as mine,
Yet we humans whine
While you in the moment live
And give such love
To your god above
Who sits envying you your state of grace.
Would that I could change place
With you
My friend true.
My dog snuffles
and scuffles
amongst the leaves.
He is just there
With no care
For what I think
As I drink
In the fresh morning air.
The bird he speaks to me of wasted time
of how I labour inside when the weather is fine.
The dog rolls on his back, paws in the air
For my writing he does not care.
The sky it darkens in the west.
I cease my toil, that is best.
Your contented sighs.
Those soft brown eyes.
Your cold wet nose.
Love beyond speech, my dog knows.
Bending, I trace the weathered stone resting peacefully in the grass. Being blind I know not who slumbers below, but hope they sleep well.
Birds sing. My dog investigates the plants growing in and around the grave, his warm head finds my hand, looking for an answer, “why have we stopped so close to home?” he seems to ask.
Turning, I run my hands over the rough bark of a huge tree. I notice a split in the midst of this mighty oak. Slowly the tree is dying. It won’t go soon unless storm uproots it but, in time the split will deepen, church wardens will consult. Perhaps staves will be employed to support the tree or, maybe a few blows of the woodman’s axe will bring it down for the safety of the community.
Intellectually I know death will one day find me but, standing here I feel no fear, only a curiosity about this place.
It has been one of those weeks when, as the bard of Avon says, troubles come not in single files but in batttalions! On Monday the “f” key which usually resides comfortably on my laptop suddenly developed a wander lust and in a bold bid for freedom detached itself from it’s fellow keys. The wanderer is now confined in an envelope in my desk drawer which should, I hope curtail any further yen it may develop to head for the open road! I’m typing this using an external USB keyboard which is working well. I will, however investigate the cost of affixing the key back where it belongs, on my laptop!
On the same night that the “f” key made a bold bid for freedom, I became aware of a strange sound in my flat. I couldn’t determine its source. However on entering the living room all became clear. My hungry hound had extracted a packet of sweets from my friend’s bag and was happily munching on them. I did rescue the remainder, however, for some unaccountable reason my friend didn’t seem to be struck by the idea of consuming the leftovers …
On Tuesday my trusty vacuum cleaner joined the heavenly choir and is now singing tunefully (or not) with other dearly departed and much lamented household appliances. The sad demise of my vacuum cleaner necessitated a trip to John Lewis yesterday evening and I am awaiting the arrival of a replacement on Thursday 30 April. I can hardly contain my excitement …! What, I wonder does next week have in store for me?
My fairy wolf, your ears so floppy and soft. I stroke them. Your eyes slowly droop, little noises of contentment. A tail thumps.
I cease momentarily. Bump, bump – your big Labrador head knocks my hand
“Please, more” you say in your own so unique way.
My big hairy wolf, there is no past or future for you, just this moment, the strokes, you and I dog and master together on this spring day.
K Morris - Poet 