The Joy of a Happy Dog

The joy is mine alone; the wetness is their joy, the running in and out of the water, the occasional swim for the ball; the running up and down the beach. The small squabbles over whose turn it is to take possession of which ball.

"Mine," says Frida, and "mine" repeats Bob, snap, jaws on air, as feet pound the surf.

For the very first time, Frida goes out farther and gets to the stick first. Triumphant Frida.


Confused Babboo.

Happy dogs.

Joyful me.

Frida gets there first

I'm coming for the stick Frida!

Give me that stick!

It's mine Babboo

Babboo get his own ball, so all's well.

Poem about Dogs

Dogs are the hardest to write about because they are so fleet

And so fleeting

Their lives like burning embers with a wet nose

They make the worst metaphors because they are so real

And yet so ethereal

All at the same time

There are so many types of dogs

Some are trees

Some are stars

Some are just plain tired

Well you would be too after

Stressful chasing of squirrels you can never

 Ever catch, who taunt you

With their snarky cackle and small

Brains

You who are so smart, so open

To all things new and shiny and yet

So wary

Do you feel the bones within you beginning to rust

The fuzz that grows into your eyes

Do you remember the stories told

By dogs past

Of warnings given

Of lessons taught

This way danger

Big cats

Cars

Poison oak

Lassie’s in the well

And Timmy can never rescue her

It doesn’t stop you

And your hearts never break

Because we know all the things you don’t

And it doesn’t stop us either