I looked the small dog in the eye
And she looked back at me…
A more determined look, I think,
You would go far to see.
I’d only mentioned it was hot
And that she must concur
That summer is no time for dogs
To wear their winter fur.
“A bath would be a good idea.”
I spoke to empty air…
She was long gone and disappeared
To hide behind my chair.
I wheedled, pleaded and cajoled,
But would she come out? No.
She knew from past experience
That in the bath she’d go.
I tried to reason with her
Then gave in and tried a bribe…
She sat in silence, wary
And ignored the diatribe.
My blandishments fell on deaf ears,
She wouldn’t move at all…
Until my back was turned
And she went off to find her ball.
I found her brush, it’s almost new,
I’d bought it years ago
But she will never let me close
To where her feathers grow.
I cannot brush the dog at all,
In spite of arrant need,
Not even when I cheat a bit
And put her on the lead.
But this time, somehow something changed
She stood as still as death,
And while I brushed, she snuck in close
Till I could feel her breath.
Continue reading at The Small Dog’s Blog
Crescent crown
The first hints of sunrise were just appearing this morning, accompanied by the squabbling of gulls who were busy dive-bombing an unfortunate owl who had missed whatever cue serves to send owls back to the roost before the gulls wake, and, since sleep had eluded me entirely, I decided to crawl out of bed. In the process I realised, completely randomly, that I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember what colour my grandmother’s eyes were.
“Hey boy, get me that crescent wrench. The middle sized one, now, ya hear, boy?”
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 