I have a friend who says writing dog poetry is the literary equivalent of suicide. Hey, Hamlet, stop bogarting that bodkin.
(c) 2012 Peter Galen Massey
You are quite the gentleman, Pugsley,
And your dignity is unharmed from
Being round, low, collared, and naked.
You climb on my lap front-legged,
Peer into my face, and seem to say:
“Please excuse my lack of faculties.
But I am a dog, and the appropriate
Allowances must be made.”
Then you give me a kiss, no less
Repulsive for being kindly meant.
I envy your transparent life, as
Obvious to others as it is to you.
I envy your uncomplicated affections,
Your wild delight in a bouncing ball,
Your comfort in a warm couch,
How simple it is for you to be fully
Present trotting down the street.
I envy you that chicken cutlet sandwich.
May I have it? Thank you. Delicious.
Well, these are very fine words,
And I’m sure you even believed
Them while you were talking,
But you don’t want to be a dog
Any more than I want to be a man.
You’d have to give up all that
Fancy thinking of which you’re
So proud, and calibrations of
Feeling, and sex – what do
You think this leash is for?
But I’d have to forget the words
Nature whispered making me:
“Love and exuberance make a soul.”
Yours is broken. Mine is whole.