Gone to the Dogs
I stuff treats, regular and gluten-free, into my pocket
for a morning walk along Carmel Beach.
The usual crew recognize my fedora and voice,
smell hidden goodies from yards away.
Pedigreed basenjis, golden retrievers, German shorthairs,
a yorkie, Swiss mountain dog plead for a handout.
With each goodwill gesture, I foster a culture of begging,
take joy in watching disobedient, canine rebellion.
I consider it my mission to invade this affluent enclave,
undo expensive training, encourage doggie anarchy.
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Long ago (1966) my grandmother and I were touring Chinatown in the City in late afternoon when we came upon a cheap steakhouse upstairs off Grant Avenue. we always ate that time of the day anyway, so we ascended to the third floor to an empty restaurant and sat in a booth. As soon as our cheap steaks arrived, a poodle came and sat up at the end of the table begging the whole time we ate. We couldn't help giving him a couple of scraps. I got the feeling that that dog was fed that way every day.
Ron
Loved this! I have a dog of my own so dog poetry touches my heart. May the dogs always have a little bit of disobedience, I say let them be happy.
Many blessings,
+Linda