Tag Archives: Diego

The Doggone Doggie Blues: dVerse Poets

The Doggone Doggie Blues

The naughty dogs who leave their marks when jumping up on me.
The naughty bruises that remain, spreading their stains on me.
I cannot stop this rudeness. I cannot find the means.
I cannot stop their tugging at my blouse sleeves and my jeans.

Unruly little denizens of my humble home,
they range wherever they may choose on terrace and on dome.
They jump up in the hammock when I choose to swing.
They jump up on my visitors to see what they might bring.

They dig into my planters and eat the tasty loam.
They even dig into my sleep to bring their mother home
from dreams where she evades them, living her own life
away from doggie pressures, away from doggie strife.

What pleasures might she find anew living all alone?
What pleasures might they miss for which her conscience would atone?
All in all, they make up for the problems that they bring.
All in all, their lonesome howls to sirens are the thing
that swell her heart and make her want to join along and sing.

I wrote this for the dVerse poets Anaphora/Epiphora prompt, but unfortunately missed the deadline. Been there before, will be there again, no doubt. At any rate, here it is for the world at large!

But, just had a brainstorm and posted it on the dVerse Poets Open Link Night, where we can post any poem on any topic. Tardy but still within the law!. Here is a link to others who published poems for Open Link Night.

What Will (And Won’t) A Dog Eat?

As I made my evening smoothie, I found the remains of my afternoon meal on the countertop. Hating to waste it, I decided to see what parts of it the dogs would eat. They’d already had their own meal hours before, but this is what I took out to the doggie domain–and the result:  (Click on photos to enlarge and read what happened.)

What will a dog eat? Clearly, everything!!!

What Have You Got in Your Mouth???

Morrie, what do you have in your mouth?

Oh, okay. Good boy. Fetch!

Diego, what did you have in your mouth?

Oh No! Bad boy! Um. Good boy?

Much as I hate to kill anything—even cockroaches and ants—sometimes your own interests have to win out. After suffering an infestation of rats in my laundry room a few years ago, I guess I can’t object too much to Diego’s efforts to protect his house and property. A few more yards and that rat would have been invading the dog or catfood or worse. They ate through a lidded very durable garbage can before to get to the catfood. R.I.P. little rat.

Hail Diego!!!

Hail Diego!!!

He’s the king of dogs by his own choice.
Behold his ruff, Enjoy his voice!
He raises it in time of doubt
to assert his power and raise his clout.


Bypassers make their passings brief
Their parting sighs denote relief.
And since he notes each falling leaf,
no way he’ll overlook a thief.


IMG_9501It is a fact that crime went down
the minute he moved into town.
All citizens should laud his fame,
and spread abroad his glorious name!!!


Prompt words today are relief, fact, king, behold and voice.

Enforced Reflection

Enforced Reflection

I’m keeping my composure and compensating for
the fact that they won’t let me venture out my door.
Given lemons, I make margaritas—take the opportunity
now that I can’t wander about in the wide community,
to revel in the riches that abound right here at home,
watching Jesus painting murals all around my dome.

I’m baking lots of cookies, although their fate is sad.
After painters ate just one or two, Diego was so bad
that he raced into the kitchen and made off with all the rest.
One friend suggested delicately it might have been best.
Would I have eaten any that remained? Yes, it’s true, I might.
I must admit my waistbands are getting sort of tight.

Perhaps it’s lack of exercise. Perhaps it’s medication.
Since I so rarely don street clothes, I have no indication.
I avoid the scales because, you know, they are so changeable.
Up one day but rarely down. (Wish they were more arrangeable.)
With nature as our trainer, perhaps we will be changed
in other crazy pastimes in which we’ve become deranged.

Fracking and polluting, casting all our trash
out there in the ocean, making a god of cash.
Nature has to teach us to change our foolish ways
by sending us all to our rooms to pass our “time out” days.
And perhaps now I’m sequestered and set upon the shelf,
Diego’s her reminder to take care of myself.

The image of Diego with a cookie in his mouth is from a retablo/art collage I’m making that is recording my time spent in Mother Nature’s Time-Out period. Why don’t you join me? Mine was finished but then I have to keep adding to it. At least a story a day. Diego was that day’s.

Prompts for the day are composure, compensate, opportunity, revel and trainer.
And, for dVerse Poets Pub prompt: Solitude.

Dog Days


Last night I baked peanut butter cookies. They did not turn out to be the best peanut butter cookies I’ve ever tasted, but a good deal of energy went into their production, and given the unreliability of an oven without a thermostat but just a gauge that “approximated” the temperature—and three hanging thermostats I had purchased in a kitchen shop in the states—each of which registered a different temperature between 350 and 400 degrees—they were at least edible after I had scraped overdone bottoms off the last batch. At any rate, I tasted one, judged them my usual baking failure and sealed them up in my favorite Tupperware storage container.

The next morning, I apologized as I offered them to Jesus and Eduardo with their morning coffee. “Good!” said Jesus, and he and Eduardo each took another one, prompting me to do the same. They weren’t bad. A bit dry. A bit too grainy. I set the top back on the Tupperware container of cookies that sat on the counter, not sealing it in case they decided they wanted more.

Then they went out to continue to paint the murals on the outside of my house and I called a plumber. I had no water this morning—hot or cold—and he was the plumber who had installed the new water pump a few months before. Yes, he was still working. He’d be there in an hour, he said. I did a million other little chores and then heard Jesus and Eduardo talking to someone in front. The Ilox installers, I thought, grabbing the keys to the studio where they were to install wifi. (Edit by Forgottenman: Ilox is her local internet provider.) But when I got out to the front yard, it was Alberto the plumber. I led him out the bedroom door to the patio above the bodega where the water pump was. He quickly determined that a faulty filter had stopped the water flow and while he was here, I asked him to check the outside lights on the patio that had refused to light for months. Then he had to go upstairs, around to the other patio, to my bedroom, to check which lights were controlled with which switch.

Meanwhile, I heard a car drive up and voices on the side of the house. The Ilox men, I thought, and heard car doors open, women’s voices. As though someone walking along the street had recognized them. I wedged an old axe head under the front gate door to keep it open, laying the garbage can lid I’d meant to repair with duct tape on the steps as I did so. Then went inside to find the studio keys. I had had them within the last half hour. The whole pile of keys to the laundry room, spare room, studio, back bedroom door, doggie domain, front door and front gate–all the keys needed for the plumber and the Ilox installers, were in a pile on the front table, but not the studio keys!

The weather had grown hot and rushing around with the damn face mask on (necessary because of all of the humans that seemed to be buzzing around my house lately) I started to fear an asthma attack. I was flustered in the way my Aunt Stella used to get flustered, walking around in tight little circles and muttering, “Blahsy Blah!” Alberto the plumber took pity on me and started looking, too. Did I ever open the back bedroom door? I asked him, remembering the painters had piled up flower pots in front of the door so we’d used a side door instead. Yes, he replied, I had opened it once, and the studio key was on the same ring. Where had I gone after I last used the key, he asked? To the studio, upstairs, to the kitchen, to the garage, to the front door, to my desk, both bathrooms, the closet. We looked everywhere.

By then it had been 10 minutes. Why had the Ilox men not come inside? I could still hear the women talking. I called Yolanda, in a panic. She had the extra pair of keys but it seems she was in Riberas, miles away (where she promised me she was no longer going) with my keys! I went out to see the Ilox guys to discover the big white truck was not the Ilox guys but the man across the street who prefers to park in front of my house because my big tree furnishes shade. “I’m gonna cut that damn tree down and get my parking back,” I vowed for the umpteenth time, but as I went back into the house, I picked up the gray garbage can lid and lo and behold—the studio keys!!!

As I came into the house, Diego came running out of the living room into the hall. “How did you get in the house?” I scolded and he zipped back into the doggie domain the second I opened its door.  I went to find the plumber, told him I’d found the keys, thanked him for his help in trying to locate them, and paid him. As he went out the door, the Ilox men entered. After a good many false starts and horrible wiring jobs—one in which they just draped the cable across the patio and lawn—we finally got the wifi installed, the men paid.

By then it was late afternoon. I was hot and exhausted and when I went into the kitchen for a drink of water, my eye fell on the Tupperware cookie container. I hadn’t eaten all day and suddenly the idea of a peanut butter cookie sounded good. I put a cup of water in the microwave for a cup of instant coffee and whipped the lid off the cookie container to find it—empty!  Then my mind flashed on Diego zipping out of the living room and so obediently out the door to the doggie domain and back yard. He had somehow managed to get the cover off the Tupperware and to eat three and a half dozen cookies without moving the container and somehow nudging the cover back on the cookies!

This is what was left:


Some days. Some days.


Trouble in Paradise


(Click on mug shots to enlarge for better identification.)

Oh man. Brian pooped in the sala and peed in the spare bedroom, in spite of the fact that I took him out twice last night and once this morning. Then Annie cried all morning in spite of the fact I’d given her food, water and head scratches—perhaps because Brian was in my bed with me? Put Brian out, put a cushy bed for him out on the side of the house and opened gate for Morrie to join him in the side and front yard so they could play without Diego’s interference. Morrie immediately went for the cat food in this usual cat’s domain and then for Annie, whom I had forgotten was in the front garden. Chased her behind the big planter, where she was cowering when I came out to put Morrie back in the back yard and to rescue Annie. There are not enough zones in this house! I don’t know that I have a solution to the problem. Brian is crying outside but I won’t have an animal who pees and poops inside!  Help.

1/2 hour later. Good news. Brian has stopped crying.

Dog Language


Dog Language

It’s true I can decipher after all these years
every little wiggle, each twitching of their ears.
See that head’s uplifting? The garbageman is near.
That ruff of neck spells danger. Tail between legs means fear.

One whine warns of a squirrel invading territory
intended for two dogs alone. Then barks are mandatory!
Sirens were meant for harmony—their plaintive howls a must.
Head bowed down submissively signals respect and trust.

They also know my language. When I move to the door
three rooms away to feed the cats, I hear their hungry roar.
Up against the back door, starving paws commence to scrape.
If I had plans to skip their meal, now there is no escape.

It is their task to let me know when feeding time is close,
and when I move at snail’s pace, they become quite verbose.
The younger dog, much better trained, awaits me in his cage,
surprised at how the older dog dares to jump and rage.

Ordered outside, he edges closer, full of twists and flounces.
The minute that the bowls are lowered, he charges in and pounces.
Then each is most fastidious in licking clean his plate,
fearing that starvation is a likely fate.

They keep a vigilant watch on me, peering through the bars
between the terrace and kitchen, as I open jars.
They hear the fridge door opening, they see each morsel fall.
If they ever get inside, they will devour them all.

And when perchance they sneak inside, against their master’s wishes,
take on the chore of licking clean all the old cat’s dishes.
How else might they show gratitude, with no words to express it?
They simply have to wag their tails and hope that I might guess it!

Prompt words today are fastidious, task, uplifting, decipher and snail.

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.