Another piss puddle on the wooden tiles

and generous portions of shit ornament

our back-room carpet. The younger dog

scrambles down from the sofa,

the older remains beneath the table

frantically avoiding eye contact.

People sometimes ask why I hate dogs so much,

but after about fifteen minutes narration

I can see they’re not really interested.

They never hear how the young one rolled

in a stink of fox-faeces and when we got back

I tied her to the apple tree, sprinkled the shampoo,

connected the hosepipe, aimed at her head

and sprayed the almost dry washing.

 

If I liked dogs I might have found it amusing,

but I laughed even less when I returned

to the kitchen and the floor was swimming

because I hadn’t tightened the tap connection

and it took twelve towels to soak up the water.

They miss the story how dogs have thwarted

my attempts to save the planet, by reusing

plastic bags to carry the shopping and declining

those proffered by the bloke at the counter.

Now we need extra bags to pick up the dog shit

and the shop counter clucks his tongue each visit,

disapproves of the weather, sighing loudly

when I haven’t brought the right change.

He don’t know what the world’s coming to.