Faithful dogs wait, at the window or the foot of the bed, with full devotion.
and now he's howling like a beagle – yips, brays,
gagging growls – and scratching the sill paintless,
that's how much he's missed you, the two of you,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night unweary, —
For she does not lie awake in the dark and weep for her sins, and
whine about her condition, and discuss her duty to God.
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.
Teeth into floating wood
Then bound back to their owners
Shining wet, with passionate speed
A mourned family pet fill these poems with love and grief.
In late autumn the hound
gone now ten years, has come
My God, tomorrow’s ride . . . Well, here we are,
right now. You stare at me and wag your tail.
He’s gone to some
utopos now, the dirty dog, doctor of
crotches, digger of holes.
These dogs get into messes and mischief—all while relishing their freedom.
a real realist
with a real tale to tell
and a real tail to tell it with
But now, my bark a ghost in this strange scentless air
I am no growling cicerone or cerberus,
But wreckage for the pound, snuffling in shame
Dogs cannot write. My mother told me this.
As for his talk, well, I took no special notice.
His love of the war poets was well known.
We find a dog, hungry and sad as a suitcase kicked open
And showing nothing.
David M. Graham
Oh yes, they were bad, my childhood dogs,
I rethink kicking him out,
but being cool, I let him in.
and everyone understanding that once more Bosco
had been taken over by the dark corner of his nature.
These fables provide allegories and lessons for dog owners and walkers.
Two hundred miles north I’d let the dog
run among birches and the black shade of pines.
loyal to being on your own in the fur of your skin,
able to exist only for the sake of existing.
every day I watch her using
the yard’s big maple as the apex of a triangle
We ought to be reminded of Aesop’s dog, who set out
With a bone
I bet the Eighth Street Dog
had been a movie star, because everything I read
about movie stars suggests they can’t control themselves
for more than five minutes.
Let Freud and Wordsworth discuss the child,
Angels and Platonists shall judge the dog,
Do dogs hear the same songs we do? Do they understand us? Will we ever understand them?
More than once I've seen a dog
waiting for its owner outside a café
practically implode with worry. “Oh, God,
The true strains rise only from
the rich, red chambers of a canine heart,
these melodies best when the moon is up,
When I put my mouth to her ear
and shout her name. She walks away.
If we had only learned to speak
The tongue of dogs instead of Greek,