5 posts tagged “dog”
*takes deep breath*
There....now for the expiration.....
Yes, I amuse myself constantly
But, seriously, folks, it's cold, wet and dreary and I am going to sponge paint my kitchen today. I am, I am, I really am.
But, first, I felt that I should contribute to Vox, since I have been neglecting it lately. Here's a few recent pics from my life. w00ty t00t t00t! :D
We always call Toffee "Toffee Lou Who" after she gets her Spring Haircut. :D
Have a good day, friends!
...the rug, that is, I am not going into deep space, yet.
Here are two cute pics I just got in my inbox...no credits on either of them.
Have a good day, kids!
A lovely night and day. Nice snowstorm, but not dangerous driving. (easy for me to say, I wasn't driving in it).
Anyhoo......
We got 10 inches. That should be enough for ANYone! ;)
Hahahahaha.
I am innocently sitting here reading through the hood and Reuben (black lab) starts horking. Hork hork hork. The dog is about to BLOW!!!
I start yelling "GO GO GO, RUN RUN RUN, MOVE MOVE MOVE" anything to distract him enough to get him to the back door before he upchucks on the carpet. Of course, Reub and I have an escort of three other dogs and Murray the kitten all the way to the backdoor, too. And I am shoving both of us through the pack....praying...praying we make it.
I fling the sliding door open and Reuben stumbles off the deck and into the grass and barfs. SUCCESS!!!!
*pant pant pant* I can't take all this excitement. *fans self*
You know I love all of you.
But....haha, and it's a big butt......har har....I have been melancholy and must therefore share two fantabulous poems which somehow let me wallow happily in the melancollie. Yes, they are "dog poems". Hard to believe there is such a thing.
Mary Oliver and Rudyard Kipling.
Enjoy.
And have a tissue handy.
Her Grave
by Mary Oliver
She would come back, dripping thick water, from the green bog.
She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin
from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile-----
and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her
cunning elbows,
and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the unassuming
perfect arch of her neck.
It took four of us to carry her into the woods.
We did not think of music,
but, anyway, it began to rain
slowly.
Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.
Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased something.
My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash
of happiness as she barged
through the pitch pines swiping my face with her
wild, slightly mossy tongue.
Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat?
He is wiser than that, I think.
A dog lives fifteen years, if you're lucky.
Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds
think it is all their own music?
A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you
do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the
trees, or the laws which pertain to them.
Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill
think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshment
of her long slumber?
A dog can never tell you what she knows from the
smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know
almost nothing.
Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think
the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace
of his own making?
She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come back, or
wait for me, or be somewhere.
Now she is buried under the pines.
Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and
not to be angry.
Through the trees is the sound of the wind, palavering
The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste
of the infallible energies?
How strong was her dark body!
How apt is her grave place.
How beautiful is her unshakable sleep.
Finally,
the slick mountains of love break
over us.
_____________________________________________________________________
Thus endeth Mary Oliver's poem. I cannot continue. Tomorrow for any other poems.
Good night.
