Why snaps the Crescent kennel loud while Canterbury throws me pies,
And swears I dropped from angel clouds with gravy dripping from the skies,
I only wag at friend and foe and sniff what any hound has smelt,
Yet still they bark I’m heaven’s joke while others say I’m Heaven’s help.
They shout I’m filthy, scandal-made, a walking scandal nose to tail,
Yet I can polish every inch without a brush, a rag, or pail,
If cleanliness is tongue and time then I’m the parish scrubbing maid,
Though granted some positions reached would make a bishop faint and fade.
Perhaps my tail, a feather duster fit to sweep a royal hall,
Offends the ones with rope-like tufts that barely wag at all,
My coat shines bright as buttered toast while theirs recalls a winter goat,
And yes I preen a bit because a glossy rump deserves to gloat.
Or maybe it’s my menu list of sausage, bacon, ham and rind,
While others chew suspicious stew best left to archaeologists to find,
I bless each pig who served my cause with reverent and cheerful bark,
Then bury leftovers like treasure maps for tipsy midnight lark.
My teeth flash white when danger comes too near my pack or supper dish,
For love is soft but guard is hard when strangers eye what I call “fish”,
Yet mostly I’m a fool for games, for sticks, for mud, for racing air,
And zoom through parks like cannon shot with reckless joyous underwear.
If paws should land on picnic cloths or prayer rugs laid upon the grass,
It’s less rebellion, more poor brakes and velocity that will not pass,
I skid, I spin, I fart, I grin, I sneeze in pollen, dust and pride,
Then offer licks as compensation none have yet politely tried.
I cherish naps and gentle hands and quiet laps that smell like tea,
Not endless rows of bark and shout and competitive yellery,
The world is loud enough already without a kennel choir at night,
So I prefer a hearth, a bone, and dreams of heroic stew-based might.
I lift my leg on posts of state and let philosophy descend,
A warm and steaming editorial that only dogs can truly send,
For bowls brim full and hearts brim fuller when love patrols the yard,
And puppies fresh with milk-sweet breath make even watchdog duty lark.
So judge me how you will, good packs, by moon, by creed, or grooming log,
I’ve food, I’ve friends, I’ve squeaky toys, I’ve purpose, joy, and life as dog,
Let critics yap till throats go dry like biscuits left upon a stone,
I run, I roll, I laugh, I live, a happy hound, completely grown.
(By John Shenton)