doggerel

by E. J. Ward

SALLY
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 The sweet flower face of a victim
Delicate, wide-eyed and responsive
Reciprocating gentleness and fun.

Not your fault your master is an intellectual

Gifted, sensitive, creative and self-centred
Who kicks you when he comes home drunk.

ALBERT

1.
Albert
hates
me to
go out

cleaning;
He won’t be seen with me, lags fifty yards behind.
“For God’s sake it’s only a stop-gap” I say,
“A temporary measure to deal with the cash-flow problem
“After all these months of creativity and self-expression.”
“You are embarrassing” he says, “I’m not coming”
And turns his head away.

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“You say that, but you always do.”
And so he does. He sits by the gate when I go in.
The house is spotless.
It is the cleanest house I have ever seen.
She does not wish me to think she has a dirty house,
So she cleans it before I arrive.
I flourish a spray-can to prove that I’ve been,
Water some plants, rearrange some teddy-bears,
Iron some shirts and buff up some sparkling taps.
After a little while I start to sing.
Albert runs in front of me all the way home.
“There you are, that wasn’t so bad was it?”
But he has gone on ahead pretending he doesn’t know me.

2.
You get close to a dog in a caravan, it’s a confined space.
You get to know his little ways.
He snores like a human for one thing, and dreams that he’s swimming,
Or galloping, or running after a bus, or chasing women.
Sometimes he gets up in the middle of the night and sits framed in the
doorway looking up at the stars.
I don’t know what he’s doing, maybe he’s thinking?
Maybe he’s trying to clear his head?
Anyway after a while he gives it up and goes back to bed.

And then there was that terrible time O-my-God of his little operation.
It should never have happened; it was born of desperation.
He’d got into the bad habit of the long weekend,
Coming back on Tuesday mornings tied to a piece of string with a perspiring
policeman on the end.
But what’s really disturbing about the outcome in fact is his
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Sexual malpractices.
Because when he meets another dog and they do the usual
do-se-do and have a tinkle
They lick his winkle.
At which the voices of the owners go up an octave and they get quite shirty:
“Come here at once Charles! Bad dog! Don’t do that, it’s dirty!”

For it seems that the shock may have pushed Albert the other way
And turned him gay.
What worries me most is that he will end up behind bars.
Maybe that’s what he’s thinking about when he sits framed in the doorway
at night looking up at the stars

HEOLE

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6
I am told you have been thirsting for news of me.
(This is not my fault as you may imagine)
And it is suggested I write to you about myself –
“What I did in the holidays” or some such stuff.

I point out that I have not had a holiday since we came here,
So she says “Alright then, whatever interests you.”
I cannot think of a polite way of describing what interests me
So she says “How about your new basket?”
Well a good thing about my new basket is she can’t get into it.
(She regularly took my place on the daybed in the summer).
And another good thing is that it has a fur rug of sorts,
Though not THE RUG! (More of that later.)

And I can lie this way with my head on my paws watching her,
Or I can lie this way pretending to be asleep.
Then she says I’m spying on her
And goes inside drawing the curtains.

I am not spying on her, I am keeping an eye on her.

Especially when she is being silly in the mornings.
Now I like to lie on my back stretching my legs in the air, who doesn’t?
But what sane dog would stand on its head every morning?
I’ve thought long and hard about this,
Which is why she says I am spying on her.
(She says my ears keep popping up like a big M,
Making her fall over.)

But about the rug –

If you spread things on the floor it’s for me to lie on, right?
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The mats are on the floor, I lie on those alright.
But she has got this THING about the rug.
A sort of fixation with the furry side.
She keeps folding it over as if she’s hiding something.
I do sometimes wonder if she needs help.
So I suggested that she write to you –

A JOURNAL OF THE RUG WAR

I don’t like being stared at like that
Accusingly
Reproachfully
As if it was my fault.
I’ve told you before I don’t like it with your ears up like that
Judgemental.

If it’s about the rug, (and it usually is),

We’ve been through that.
You know that the rug has just been washed (again!)
And the furry side is not for you because you make it dirty.
Which is why I fold it in half to protect it,
Giving you twice the thickness, twice the warmth to lie on
If you would only see it that way.
But no, all you see is it’s half the size and the furry side gone.
And it’s not as if you didn’t have a perfectly good bed
That most dogs would be proud of -
Clean, well-aired and always in the way.

But maybe it’s not about the rug.

Maybe you are a reincarnation of my mother
Trying to make me feel guilty?
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She used to look at me reproachfully like that.
(It didn’t work for her either.)

In any event it’s my house and if you want to live in it

You will have to learn to regard me differently -
With more respect and admiration, rather more like a God.
And then perhaps we’ll see about the rug.

You’re at it again aren’t you?

There have been developments in The Rug War –
Another front has opened up.
Having warmly welcomed a new peace initiative
Subsequent to the removal of The Rug six months ago
Due to a series of wearing, undignified territorial disputes,
A quiet summer has dripped by peacefully without incident.

However, you had not forgotten – you were waiting.

Last night at two a.m. an outburst of exhibitionistic panting
Followed by a fury of disorderly, unseemly scuffles,
Alerted me to the fact that you were on the sofa.

In thirteen years you have never taken an interest in the sofa.

(Though in human terms you are now ninety-one,
An age at which my father took up roller-skating
And Josiane’s mother painted the inside of her house bright pink,
Including the furniture and the hot-plate.)

Exhausted, I put an old cover on the sofa and went back to bed,
Leaving you in possession.
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Unwise.
You had invaded enemy territory and spent the next half hour
Huffing and panting and treading the sofa into submission.

At last I hauled you into the bathroom and shut the door on you.
Unwise.
The bathroom is below my bed. You banged about with your elbows
And heaved yourself against the bath with a crash.

Now you are out in the garden,

Which is what you wanted all along.
You have won.
But you are not on the sofa.
And you have not got the rug.

You’ve been sleeping out for weeks now in the forest,

(I put you out myself after dinner to show that it’s my idea),
And in the morning you are curled up by the door in concession.
However at three am you are nowhere to be found –
You have escaped the system.

But soon the sopping Gulf Stream will creep up the coast,
Drenching the woods with autumn mists
And soaking your old bones.
And we must face the problem once again.

But I have a plan.

I’m building a conservatory –
You didn’t know that did you?
Human beings can do these things.
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You will come into the house at night as usual,
But when I go to bed, leaving the sofa vulnerable to attack,
I’ll wait till the huffing and panting starts, then
Throw open the conservatory door and
There will be the rug!
But it will be folded in half.
And it will not be furry side up!

This is the End Game, the Final Solution

You are out in the garden come rain come shine
And enter the house only for meals.
You are pleased with this
And believe you have won the war.

But you have only won a summer skirmish.

Soon Atlantic gales will lash the coast
With furious howling gales and thunder.
You don’t like thunder.

Then comes the hunting season

With yelping packs of hounds and gunfire.
You don’t like gunfire.

The angle of your ears will modify

Your gaze will soften to submission
Humility and dependence.
You will beg the God-like being who controls your world
To open the conservatory door
And the old order will be re-established.

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The ancient law of dogs and men will re-assert itself
As gratefully, humbly and submissively
You lie down on the rug
Delighted to find it has been folded in half
Giving it twice the thickness
Twice the warmth for your old bones.

TOBY

My name is Toby and I live with an old lady in a forest.

She says I am epileptic.
I don’t know what this means but I hope it is nice.
Sometimes something happens to me in the night
And when I wake up I have done a big turd.
(This is a surprise as I am a very clean dog
And I NEVER do turds in the house.)
She is not cross but wraps it in loo-paper
And flushes it down the toilet.

I’m told I am very beautiful but pungent.

This is because I am so big.
(All big dogs smell apparently)
And it’s her fault as I am supposed to go swimming every week.
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We haven’t been to the river lately
Because last time I got swept away by the Spring tide
(For although I am so big I am still only a puppy)
And this frightened her.

I get kidnapped a lot because I am so beautiful.

Usually ladies of a certain age “who think I am lost”.
Once a little boy had me on a string for four hours
To teach me tricks.
I like tricks and I love little boys
So I did my best.

I have a trick with the ladies.

When my old lady is sitting down she is at my level
So I put my head on her breast and gaze into her eyes
And wag my tale a lot.
And she goes to pieces.
It always works.

I am a Newfoundland dog bred to save people from drowning,

So of course I dry them off with my tongue.
When I try to save my old lady from drowning in her bath
It makes her shriek and giggle, so I suppose she likes it.
Then she points to my bed fiercely to make me lie down
So I lick the hand she is pointing with
And she goes to pieces again.

I do lie down of course.

But that is because I want to.

DINNER TIME
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Old Lady: If you were really hungry you would eat that.
Me: What is it?
O.L.: Dog biscuits.
Me: (outraged) WHAT?
O.L.: It’s dog biscuits.
Me: (speechless) Who do you think I am?
O.L.: You’re a dog.
Me: Oh yes very funny. Don’t play games with me Old Lady . .
O.L.: Dog biscuits are designed for dogs, giving them all the vitamins and
nutritional values they need to keep them in perfect health with a glossy
coat and abundant energy . . .
Me: But. . . you haven’t DONE anything to them –
O.L.: Are you not in perfect health with a glossy coat and abundant energy?
Me: (suspicious) You’re not going to keep this up are you?
O.L.: I don’t know what you mean . . .
Me: You don’t love me anymore.
O.L: How can you SAY that?
Me: You treat me like a dog . . .
O.L.: That’s a DISGRACEFUL thing to say . . .
Me: You don’t care that I am starved for want of affection . . .
O.L.: That’s NOT TRUE!
Me: Nobody cares about me. No-one bothers to feed me properly
O.L.: You’re spoilt, that’s the problem . . .
Me: You give me any old rubbish to eat . . .
O.L.: I’m SORRY! I’m SORRY alright? It’s just that it’s been an awful day – I
don’t expect you to understand . . .
Me: Because I’m only a dog right?
O.L.: You are propelling me into an early grave . . . .

I’ve known many dogs of character,

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Each more forceful than the last,
Ascending in order of manipulative intelligence to the ultimate experience
that is Toby.
If you see yourself as pack leader to a cowering and adoring hound
Forget it.
He is so vast in size and sheer psychological insight into human nature
That all you can hope for Is a permanently evolving negotiated settlement
That does not involve too much loss of face and screaming “SHUT UP AND
LIE DOWN!”
This is humiliating,
Demeaning to our sensitive, finely-attuned nervous-systems,
And puts us in our place.
We are reduced to cattle.
He remains unmoved.
He has got what he wants
And we wonder how we allowed ourselves to be manipulated once again.
For he has only to wait and things will “normalise”, as he puts it,
And he will be in charge again.

Don’t get me wrong, I am a ruthless, highly experienced dog-person

Who knows it is always the fault of the owner when dogs go wrong.
I have rules, I am not ashamed to admit it,
And rules must be obeyed.
But with Toby I get the uneasy impression they are HIS rules,
And I am implementing them to achieve his ends.
With the uncanny advantage of being so beautiful that he is frequently
kidnapped,
He becomes glamorous.
So when he decides to seduce you, you’d better watch out.
He will wait until you are on the sofa so that he towers above you when he
sits down.
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Then he will gently place his head on your breast,
Gaze at you lovingly, and waft his fan-dancer’s tail.
And you will be so captivated by this amorous proposal
You will not notice he has eaten your cake.

Our connection with dogs goes back a long way -

To cave imprints 15,000 years ago in fact –
So we feel close to them and find them beautiful.
But what do they see in us?
We are their pack-leaders of course,
And they are loyal to us because we feed them -
But can we therefore assume they are concerned about us?

Toby’s exceptionally acute observations of human psychology

Extend mainly to what affects his personal well-being.
He likes being with me because I understand his little ways.
And we have arrived at a negotiated settlement in which he runs the show,
On the implicit understanding that I be allowed to believe I do.
But he is fickle as well as flirtatious,
And is particularly drawn to women of any age,
Especially little girls, who are always the ones to kidnap him in the park.
But in reality it is not girls he likes, but men.
Women are good for a kiss and a cuddle and a delightful balm to a hurt
paw,
But he can’t take us seriously, for he is a water-dog
Bred to rescue fishermen from ice-flows on the Labrador-Newfoundland
coast,
And becomes very anxious when I take a bath,
Trying to restore me to life by licking me dry,
And when that fails, by drinking the bathwater.

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So a group of strong men in the forest sawing trees
Mean Toby will be AWOL for days at a time,
Offering his ball to big men who topple like the trees they fell for his
merciless charms.
(“What a lovely dog!”)
Also Toby has Attention-Deficit-Hyperactivity-Disorder.
And epilepsy.
Canine epilepsy is not rare:
It “causes the brain to be too excitable or jumpy” and can be controlled by
drugs.
But I learn that epilepsy has also been ascribed to some of the greatest
minds, saints, prophets and creative geniuses in our world,
And see it as a sign of Toby’s heightened awareness and exceptional insight.
So I think it a privilege and give him no pills.

Since then countless hours of extreme running and ball-playing

Have stabilised a situation that threatened to become unmanageable,
And Toby now freely chooses to limit his walks to ten minutes structured
retrieving
In which he finds time to pursue his personal agenda by playing practical
jokes of his own devising.
These involve retrieving the ball, hiding it, and sitting down to wait for you
to find it.
Sometimes you will mysteriously find two balls side-by-side.
Sometimes a bone.
On other occasions he won’t hide the ball at all but slyly keep it in his mouth
to watch you search.
He will coolly lead you on –
For he is an operator.
A trickster.
DOG LICENCE
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“You mean I need a licence to be a dog?”
“Well yes . . ”
“Have you got a licence to be a person?”
“Yes I have as a matter of fact. It’s called a birth certificate.”
“To prove you were born?”
“To prove my legal status - so I can participate in society generally . . . ”
“In what way?”
“If you want a driver’s licence, for example . . . ”
“I do, I do. I’ve always wanted to drive. I have to sit in the back all the
time.”
“Dogs don’t drive . . ”
“Yes they do. On YouTube there’s a Giant Schnauzer who drives. He’s as big
as me.”
“My car insurance has just doubled with this new car . . . ”
“They put tape on the steering wheel so his paws can get a grip. They said
he was unmanageable. Just like me . . . ”
“Can you imagine what it would cost if I said my dog was driving?”
“There’s some tape in the shed . . . ”
“I’m sorry Toby. I just couldn’t afford the insurance.”
“It’s not much use then is it, a birth certificate?”
“You need one to get a passport. To go abroad.”
“Oh yes, yes! Then I could visit my folks!”
“But your folks live only ten miles away . . . ”
“I mean my real folks. On the Newfoundland-Labrador coast. South of the
arctic circle.”
“How do you know about that?”
“My mother told me. It’s our cultural heritage . . .”
“I’m suddenly beginning to feel very old.”
“I suppose your age is on your passport . . . Can I see it?”
“Why?”
“I want to look at the photo.”
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“Certainly not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I look like a serial killer.”
“If you say so . . . ”
“But you can look at your identity card if you like.”
“What does it say?”
“You were born in France so it’s in French.”
“Go on . . . ”
“It’s issued by the Societe Centrale Canine and it says you were born on
10/10/2007, your sex is Male, your name is Toby and you wear a black
dress.”
“If my sex is male why do I wear a black dress?”
“It says “robe noire” – “black dress.”
“But I’ve never worn a black dress in my life!”
“Maybe it means “black coat”? And it says you have no hair.”
“No hair?”
“After “poil” – “hair” – there is a gap.”
“But you’re always complaining I have too much hair!”
“And you are a cross Labrador”
“Cross? I’m never cross! That’s one of the things you love about me. My
sweet nature. And I’m only half Labrador- I’m mainly Newfoundland.”
“And your insert number is 250269604131001.”
“INSERT? You mean you’ve inserted something into me? Without my
permission?”
“It’s only your identification number. For next time you get kidnapped.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if one really needs a birth certificate.”
“It depends if you want to go to College.”
“That would be nice of course . . . ”
“Or if you wanted to stand for Parliament . . . ”
“Do you think I should?”
“Or if you were thinking of getting married . . . ”
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“It’s funny you should mention that . . . ”
“You mean you’ve met someone?”
“Yes. But she wouldn’t have me. She’s out of my class . . ”
“The Borzoi we met in the park?”
“You saw her did you? One classy dame. Just my type . . . ”
“Did she turn you down?”
“She said I smelt of pig shit.”
“So THAT’S why you got back in the car in such a hurry! I TOLD you they’d
been muck-spreading in the bottom field . . ”
“I suppose I could get married without a licence . . . ”
“It’s a risk. Think of your children. They could be arrested as illegal aliens.”
“But then I suppose you’ve put an end to my fathering potential as well?”
“It was your folks did that to you. Maybe they thought it would regulate
your behaviour?”
“We are what we are.”
“Indeed.”
“But you still put up with me don’t you?”
“Looks like it.”

My dog is getting enlightened

All my fault
He meditates twice a day for his epilepsy
And now he’s a Buddhist or something
No shit man
He won’t chase the cats who are stalking my birds
- It’s violent man - Live and let live - Peace and Love he says
- It’s your job-description I say - it’s what you are here for
- You are a dog - the deal is you guard the house - and chase the cats –
And get spoiled rotten
- That is because you love me he says
- There is a cat. Look! - it is stalking the birds - chase it!
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- Nice pussy he says
- It’s not a nice pussy, it’s chasing the birds -
It’s taken me two years to get these birds back -
Cost me a fortune in bird-food weekly -
Not to mention my back with all the carrying
- Cool it man, he says - you’re stressing me - double Libra, Sun and Moon
- Peace and Love man, take it easy
And HIDES UNDER THE TABLE!
- I can’t take this much longer - I can’t even walk without two sticks
- How am I supposed to chase the cats?
- Hard shit man - we all have our problems
And he has a fit, the first for two years Just to teach me!
- I told you not to stress me he says
- Now take it easy -
Just relax man and give me my dinner.
TOBY: Wa wa wa wa wa! Quick quick I’m a bad dog lock me up!
Old Lady: (I can’t come now Toby I’m busy.)
T: Wa wa wa! they’re coming! Help help! Lock me in the doghouse!
OL: (I’m in the toilet Toby I can’t come now)
T: Oh oh! Quick I’m losing my mind! Wa wa! Lock me up PLEASE!
OL: (You’ll have to wait; I’m in the toilet)
T: They’re coming they’re coming! RALPH! RALPH! RALPH! RALPH!
OL: (Oh for God’s Sake!)
T: I’m a bad dog I can’t help it RALPH! RALPH! I’m losing my mind!
OL: You’re not a bad dog Toby – it’s just the hunters in the forest -
T: Ooof! What took you so long? Lock me in the bathroom! Quick!
OL: Alright don’t knock me over! Really, this is too much. I can’t even go to
the loo . . . . . !

My dog the mime artist

Goes to the same spot every night before bedtime
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Lifts his leg and counts to five
Then rushes back home laughing in my face
“What are you going to do
“Go down on all fours and sniff it to check that I’ve been?”

(by E. J. Ward Copyright 2016)

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