The dog, I have nicknamed, Pauper, whom is a stray dog in the neighborhood: a half-pint size German Shepherd Mutt!
My wife and I, more wife than I, have grown to care for him,
Perhaps even grown to love him in a mutt kind of way!
My wife has taken him on one occasion to the veterinarians because of wounded foot, thereafter for a shampoo, -save, he needed it long before he got it: No longer smelling like a mutt, rather more like Lysol.
And thereafter again, given the mutt those expensive shots… hopefully, cleaning out his system of any disease, and so forth…
We tried to restore him to civilization, bring him into our home and treating him near like an equal, but he cried and whimpered…
Can you picture a German Police Mutt, crying and whimpering?
It’s hard being a Vietnam Veteran watching that, so I set him free to go back and roam his old turf.
Well, what can one say-to each his own, even a dog has the right to choose-so I feel-his destiny!
Anyhow, the essence of this poem is this:
We’ve fed him per near daily, for more than a few months now,
A few times a day!
Hamburger for lunch, and a steak for dinner, water for his thirst, and some hard-bread-crackers, mixing the dog food with hamburger sometimes…
Had I not mixed it with the hamburger, he’d not have eaten dog food, he’s highbrow, believe it or not-
Yes, even a mutt, a stiff-nicked mutt, can be costly, and this Peruvian Mutt, is high maintenance…
“I will not eat anything else at your house, without protein in it!” his eyes have told me, time and again, and my wife seems to identify with him; or is it with me and him?
As if he is on a kosher diet.
But he does put on quite the show, and watching him eat is a treat!
He approaches so dandy like: cool as a ripe and chilled cucumber.
Wiggling that long mutt tail, not tramp style, but kingly, as if somewhere along the line, he was descended from King Arthur’s court (as they say: elitist).
I call him, the roustabout, he has three neighborhoods he searches out I do believe;
And that look on his face says: if you don’t serve me, I got plan B, and C, already in place (sounds like my son-in-law!)
Anyhow, suddenly the dog sees the steak in my hand, for him surely the choicest slab of protein in the neighborhood-
In all three neighborhoods!
With a swift dart of his perturbing-dog face, and strong four-year old saber teeth, he dives at the steak, grabs hold of the steak, clutching it, as if it might grow legs and run away;
I have to watch my fingers and his teeth closely, lest I lose them:
My reflexes are not as good as they used to be, nor my eyesight!
The steak, now in his mouth, his head raised, ere, before he devours it:
Exultantly he throws the stack every-which-way but loose,
As if to tenderize it before the big moment!
Then snap, it is in two pieces, one hanging out of his mouth, the other on the floor, of our den-
This is not the end!
He gives no more attention to my wife and I, he is in a LSD, kind of zone… happy as three cockroaches, on top of a hill of sugar!
He chews madly, as if someone might come along and take it away; there is a bigger dog next door, who likes steaks also…
My steaks that I give to Pauper that is the main reason he comes into our den, to eat the steak in secret, lest he lose it to Moro- the beast!
And until the first of the halves disappears down his long slippery throat, he is not content-
Eaten with such relish and determination, he now goes for the second portion, a little less hurried: yet a little worried
Crack-head, the Priest’s dog, across the street might appear,
He likes Pauper’s hamburger:
I’ve nicknamed the Priest’s dog Crack-Head, because he keeps falling off the Preacher’s rooftop, and he’s bitter, and I have learned from experience, to only refer to him as Crack-head when he’s not looking…
He can read my lips, and brother when I call him that name, he gives me the: I’ll eat you look!
He too, is similar to Moro the Beast!
Does Pauper, have a concept of what he is eating (surely not what it costs)?
How do I know?
He continues in his way in the matter of establishing long term contact with this house, especially marinating my wife with his droopy sad eyes, knowing I’m perhaps a war veteran, he is cautious with his peas and cues…
Once he is full, he tramps off to Cockroach Villa, wherever that is!
But since that last shampoo he got, he has returned to smelling like the old Mutt of the neighborhood once again
And every time I feed him, I got to take a shower thereafter!
I told my wife this is getting to be too time consuming!
If not costly, for a dog that won’t even watch the perimeter of our house, or for that matter, keep us company at night!
Written 11-18-2014 (No: 4609)