Category Archives: dogs

Dogs

Dogs

Dogs following their masters, close upon their heels.
Dogs waiting under tables, patiently, for meals.
Dogs sitting at attention, or looking for their balls.
Dogs patiently waiting for their masters’ calls.
Dogs upon the sofa, singly or in pairs.
Dogs listening for a certain car, on the carport stairs.
Some dogs travel as luggage. Others stay at home.
When masters get their leashes out, that’s when they get to roam.
Sitting on the rooftop or waiting on the stairs,
some dogs live as singles. Others roam in pairs.
Strolling ‘round the pool or sunning at the beach,
one dog or another is rarely out of reach.
Some dogs simply have to finish what they start.
First it’s just a little tug, but soon things fall apart.
Then they get in trouble for what was meant as fun
That’s why they look so innocent after they are done!
Why were they given teeth at all If they weren’t meant to use them?
It wasn’t their intention, when they started, to abuse them!
Their collars and their leashes incite their excitation
as  harbingers of their favorite form of recreation.
But other types of collars are labelled cones of shame.
Hard for dogs to understand that they are not to blame.
Dogs are made for leaping. Some even look like goats.
Some roam the world au naturel whereas others wear coats.
So many different types of dogs and different types of masters.
But all agree their good points atone for their disasters.

(Click on any photo to enlarge all.)

 

For Ragtag’s prompt, “Dog“.

Wednesday in the Hammock with Morrie

There is a commentary that goes with these photos.  To see it and to enlarge them all, click on the first photo. The arrow on the right of the photo will take you to the next photo.  Have fun! Morrie and I want to share our afternoon with you. He’s narrating.

The Suspect

Who, Me????

The Suspect

I suspect you are the guilty one. The evidence is clear,
and as a further indication, you’re acting rather queer.
Those pork chops just left in the pan a short while ago
are nowhere to be seen now, though I’ve looked both high and low.
I don’t know where the bones have gone, but I have a suspicion
that when you last entered the house, those chops were your ambition!
I left the room for minutes and came back, much perturbed,
to find the skillet empty, albeit undisturbed,
still centered on the burner with not even one chop.
So now I fear my dinner guests are going to have to stop
to pick us up a pizza as they drive here from town,
for when I left the pork chops on the stove top to get brown,
SOMEONE helped himself to them. Mind, I’m not pointing fingers,
but as you skulk out of the room, still, my suspicion lingers.
You are a likely felon, dear little doggie mine.
I think you’d have no chance in a doggie suspect line!

 

True story.  Six pork chops!!! Skillet still centered over the flame, not one inch out of alignment. Later on, a mysterious stash of pork chop bones found by the gardener in the lower garden behind the studio.

Fandango’s prompt today is suspect.

In Quick Time


The more I slow down, the more rapidly the days seem to slip by. This oxymoron dominates my thoughts in those wee hours when I am trying valiantly to sleep. The awareness of how quickly my life is advancing into its third trimester plugs up my throat until I find it hard to breathe. I fumble for the door key, open the sliding glass doors and slip out onto the patio to gulp the cool night air.

The dogs circle round, Morrie drops hopefully in front of me, a ubiquitous green tennis ball in his jaws. There must be one of those balls hidden behind every plant in my garden.  Just four months ago, I had bought five tubes of them at the sports goods store—each containing three balls. I was about to set out on my yearly  two-month trip to the ocean. I wanted the house sitters to be well-supplied in everything, and the balls were on sale, so I had purchased what I thought would be a lifetime supply. But those balls seem to have vanished as quickly as the two months since my return home had. Two days ago, I had purchased two more tubes of balls. They sit unopened in the doggie supply vault that stores the large bin of dry dog food, a small fridge that holds the wet food I add to the dry food twice daily when I feed them, and other doggy paraphernalia: leashes, collars, medicines, rawhide bones, doggy biscuits.

And so this is a ball he must have rapidly reclaimed from some garden shadow when he heard my key in the lock to the terrace. I bend and reclaim the ball, then throw it over the pool down into the lower garden. Almost as soon as my arm falls to a vertical position, he is back with it again––everything in life seeming to speed up as I slow down.

Now, hours of insomnia and fewer hours of sleep later, I hear him whining on the other side of the security bars outside the open bedroom sliders. He would now have his morning come on more rapidly as I lie, computer on chest, writing my morning blog. I have slowed the world down for long enough. I find an appropriate ending and swing my feet to the floor, in search of Crocs. Time to get in line with the faster world’s schedule, at least for the time it takes to feed the dogs and cats.

 

Click on any photo to enlarge all.

The prompt today is rapid.

This Way and That Way

For the two hours that we were in the plaza of the French Bakery, this little dog went from table to table for a friendly visit.  When someone made the mistake of giving him a piece of bacon from their breakfast croissant, he became demanding, thrusting his head up into the lap of anyone still unfortunate enough to be eating.  He would run to the table of a rather crabby couple with a dog of their own, barking at the other dog, bringing frowns on the faces of its owners.  When I tried to call him away from them, they started frowning at me instead, thinking he belonged to me.

I couldn’t resist taking photos as he zigged here and there, trying to decide which way to go. When a new omelette or bacon croissant arrived at a table, it solved his dilemma and he came to semi-rest. Insistent and often vocal, he tracked the arrival of any food at any table.  One by one, as people got up from their tables, they came over to my table to ask if this was my dog. No, it belonged to someone in the neighborhood, I told them.  This is what the owner of the bakery had told me and I believed him, but I don’t think anyone really believed me.

 

 

Click on any photo and then on arrows to enlarge and view all.

 

For Cee’s Which Way Challenge.

Typical

Typical Day

Bark of dog,
Meow of cat.
Mama-san
takes care of that
with pop of can
and clink of dishes.
After solving
all these wishes,
back to bed.
Write my blogs.
Out of bed.
Put on togs.
Make a smoothie.
Read E-mail.
Into town
for writers’ meetings.
Lots of words
and lots of greetings.
Home again
to write some more.
Pepe’s ringing
at my door.
Once a week
a heavenly rub.
Body restored,
soak in the tub.
Pat the cats,
throw balls for Morrie.
Write some more,
the same old story.
Talk to Dux
many a time
throughout the day.
Sometimes  with rhyme.
Midnight finds me
in the pool
under stars
and Morrie’s rule.
Throw the ball
for him to fetch.
Exercise, then
reach and stretch
to retrieve the ball
he throws at me.
Then loft it over
bush and tree
to lower garden
for him to find.
This is our nightly
pool grind.
Go in to bed
to write some more.
Get up to check
I’ve locked the door.
Other events
often occur.
Trips to the vet
to trim or cure.
Coffee with friends,
or dinner out.
trips to the shore,
without a doubt.
Lives grow and change
often with time.
So this is just
the paradigm.

The prompt word today is typical.

Play Break

 

DSC00161

Play Break

See how the young dog darts and nips
at the old dog’s neck and hips?
Anxious on this glorious day
to jump and scamper, tease and play.

With one year only to his name,
his entire life’s a game.
The older dog, his conquests made,
calmly commandeers the shade.

Winded, panting, tired, sore,
he lies there for five minutes more,
then springs to life, ready again
to be the dog he was back when.