Dog Of Dogs Poem by Alex London

The rumble and grumble
As, from beneath me, he would tumble
And I would see his eyes gleaming,
Look at his tennis ball, dreaming,

Sometimes at me he’d stare,
But only when he wanted something;
Usually a walk,
For He wasn’t one to talk.

We’d take him on his marches,
Or perhaps he’d take us,
Pulling his lead
Behind him on the road as we pursued at speed.

Compliments would pour
From anyone who saw
His mane, but he wasn’t one to boast
So he’d leave me to act engrossed.

He pulled up a hedge once,
One of his more memorable stunts,
As he chased a stick and returned
With a gardener whose abuse he had earned.

But he didn’t know better
As a liver and a letter
And I thanked him for that,
A gesture unreturned by our cat.

At night sometimes he’d whine,
And as he gave up his sleep I’d give up mine
And go to him and he’d tug at my arm to let me know
That perhaps he could stomach another Bonio
Or my hand on his thick brown head.

But if he saw my smile falter
His mood in an instant would alter
And he’d come to me and sit by me
And tell me all was fine.

Every afternoon he’d greet
Me with the beat
Of his tail on the door.
But with time he’d grow tired and remain on the floor.



His favourite place was by the fire,
Spread out at an angle one had to admire
And gazing eagerly at the ball on the carpet,
Waiting for an invisible hand to play any minute.

But if one of us stood to tread
Past him, he’d lift his docile head.
His round green eyes would keep us safe
Despite the years that would start to chafe.

When I sat on the stairs
I’d hear the clatter of chairs
As he shuffled in my direction
And sat by me with a mutual affection.

Sometimes he would nose his way into my room,
And I’d feel jade pebbles scour the gloom
For a second, he’d rest his nose on by bed and lament
Then I’d wonder what it meant.
But I think I always knew.

We’d take him on his marches
And wait for his tired bones.
His leather lead grew taught behind us
So I’d walk with him, no fuss.

And then came the day when I arrived home from school
And the beating drum was slow as he lay, a tangled ball of wool
On the cold slates, as if he’d walked miles
And wanted to rest from his trials.

And in the morning I was told to say goodbye
To my best friend, but no try
Seemed right and I began to cry
And he looked up at me and was glad that I was there.

And I can still feel the heavy gaze,
And hear his doleful sighs,
But nothing of his dark green eyes,
Or the gentle mouth on my arm.