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Puppy Poem: Labrador

This is a series of posts in which I write a poem dedicated to a dog breed because I love dogs and I need more ways to express my love for these animals.

Little dog blob,
Puppy eyes that like to stare,
“What do you want me to do?”
You ask and you look up at me,
The leash our bulletin board
About birds, about smells, about other dogs.
Little dog blob,
With those flop-over ears
And your needly coat:
You look like a small bear.
White, black, or chocolate:
You are a little bear,
A giggle bear,
A bear with long and skinny enough limbs that you can curl up on my lap when you forget your size.
You don’t howl (but you can) and you have a guttural bark
A WOOF WOOF WOOF
Enough to make the neighbors call sometimes.
You can eat a lot, like those bears,
And a lot of those things you eat aren’t very edible.
You ate a pine cone once and we laughed.
It was like eating candle wax,
Something we all think about eating but shouldn’t actually eating because it will probably mess with your tongue.
You didn’t seem to care.
You ate it and you flashed a tongue full of brown specks,
All the tree confetti leftovers for you to continue savoring.
Did that pine cone smell like something?
Why did you eat it?
You are an old dog blob now.
You still have your rolls of folds of fur
And those puppy eyes
But you now have White:
You’re an old dog blob.
You are the dogs that have stripper food names—
Like Nutty, like Mocha, like Chocolate, like Truffle, like Eclair
—but do not have any idea of what your name means besides your name.
Sometimes you have long legs,
Which add some form to the dog blob,
These gangly shoelaces of legs that you get all tied up in.
Your name is Pumpernickel and, even though you are seven years old, you still act like a baby.
Sometimes you are a boulder,
A hunk of dog, a mass of throbbing meat that doesn’t feel hot or cold.
You are hot and cold, sweet and sour, nice and not nice.
Your name is Coco and you are fifteen years old and I don’t know how you are still alive but you are,
You old dog blob.
You are all on tins, you know,
You’re in baskets with bows and
You are laid atop of American flags and
You are placed next to fruit you cannot eat and
You are placed in rows,
To smile and to sit and to be a dog model:
You are The Dog.
People think you are The Dog,
The only type,
The one in all the paintings and photographs and songs and poems:
You are The Dog.
You are part of society’s dreams of taming nature and
You are part of what we imagine dogs should be and
You are always seen as good dogs:
You are The Dog.
That’s a lot of responsibility—but you wear it well—because you are normally very well behaved.
You are a very well behaved dog blob.
You are a mass of needly fur.
You and your stripper food name and
Your face on the side of tins.
You are The Dog,
The little dog blob.

Photo via.

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