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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: dog

Sunday Sonnet: Sadie the Sifter

24 Tuesday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, story

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Tags

cat, dog, dogs, life, pets, poem, poetry

My Sadie is a sniffer and a sifter after clues.

The rainy days I find so gray and nondescript, 

To her, are better for odiferous wetter news

She finds in dew on every bush and blade she’s nipped.

She finds the flights of crows a mystery and a soar

She loves the lights that twinkle in the starry sky

Not only now and then but now and evermore.

She follows — Wait!  — the scent of rabbit wanders by! 

The dislocation of my shoulder’s no big deal!

We can’t let that become priority o’er prey!

How can a merely human soul resist her zeal? 

She streaks through every scene of every act each day.

And then…she snoozes with her head upon my feet.

How oddly weird that dogs make humans feel complete. 

A cat’s a cat

To Relish the Steps

The Puppy’s Jaws

Sadie is a Thief

A Suddenly Springing Something

Hai-Cat-Ku

The Turtleets

Hot Dog!

30 Wednesday Nov 2022

Posted by petersironwood in fiction, story

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

abuse, dog, life, revenge, story, USA

Hog Dog

Photo by Anna Guerrero on Pexels.com

“Stupid crappy mutt! She smells like butt! What the hell were you thinking? To get a dog so stinking!” 

Steve undid the leash and threw it into his catch-all corner. “Do you know what she was trying to eat out there? Do you?! Poop! It’s goop! Who wanted a dog? You! And now I’m walking her to pee? Me! I don’t care how sick you supposedly are. You take her!” 

While Steve towered and glowered, the dog cowered in the corner and emitted a quiet “woof, woof.” 

Mary sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get sick. She’s a dog. Vet said she doesn’t yet know any better.” 

Photo by Kat Smith on Pexels.com


Mary’s attempts to placate Steve touched a gentle part of him inside. A part he gated and hated. As always, it made him angrier. “I don’t need a damned dog! I have you!I work hard all day to put a roof over your head. Roof! Roof! Last month, she tried to eat that poison philanderer plant. She’ll put anything in her mangy mouth. If she doesn’t stop eating turds, mark my words! I’ll make you cook her for dinner!” 

Mary waited for Steve’s rant to ebb. “I read on the web today about a dog who ate corn cobs. Surgeon had to cut him open. You’d think dogs would know what was good for them, but apparently, they don’t.” 

“Naturally I’m right! I’m bright. She’s just one more bitch too stupid to know what’s good for her! Reminder: last week, I bought a meat grinder for her food.” 

“Thank you, Steve. I’m sure I’ll be able to make really good use of that. And, it will save money on dog chow. And how!” 

Photo by Olga Divnaya on Pexels.com

Steve sneered and growled and uttered something unintelligible. 

The puppy chanced a growl of her own. Steve ignored it. Instead he snarled at Mary. “What in the Holy Name of Hell are you watching now?” 

Mary replied, “A movie. Almost over. Do you … ?”

Steve barked, “Another damned True Crime Docudrama? Jesus, Mary. Turn on the real news!” 

Mary bit her lip and then obeyed; flipped on White Nation. She shook her head. She couldn’t get over how ugly the man being interviewed was. She wondered again why so many seemed to adore him. She had long ago learned not to share her opinion. Steve was absolutely certain White Nation News was the one source to be believed. He’d thrown her entire inheritance into a “sure-fire” White Nation get rich quick scheme. Hadn’t panned out as planned. Steve’s addiction to “Tricks to Get Rich Quick”  showed no signs of relief. Not satisfied with enough, he remained sure the next scheme would make him wealthy beyond belief. 

Mary saw something dark and evil behind the interviewee’s dead eyes and painted orange face. But Steve was dead sure he was America’s salvation, or at least White America, the “Real” America, as Steve liked to say, not the “gay, black, liberal, smart-ass, immigrant, foreigners trying to take over the country.”

Steve leaned forward, face glowing blood red. Mary glanced over; saw it as lit by the TV. Steve, eyes ever glued to the tube, barked another order: “Beer Here!” 

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

Mary gathered her strength. No matter how she explained it, Steve couldn’t conceive of “Long COVID.” He didn’t really believe in COVID; he thought it all a hoax invented by liberal folks. That’s what his favorite podcasts claimed. Yet he bought ivermectin, “just in case.” 

Mary sat up; nearly fainted; rose and traipsed to the fridge. Steve didn’t notice the Oxy capsule she emptied into his beer. She quietly placed his Bud on the end table. She fell back again in her chair, too exhausted to continue her Agatha Christie. She couldn’t stand White Nation News. From beginning to end, she thought it in bad taste; noxious and possibly poisonous. She tried to think back to an earlier time when Steve was nice. She couldn’t think of such a time. She decided maybe that was a good thing, under the circumstances. 

After a few doctored beers, Steve sprawled comatose. Although they had agreed to share dog duties, it was always Mary who fed her. 

Photo by Polina Tankilevitch on Pexels.com

Until she had quit three days earlier.

Mary stopped the microwave before it beeped; shuffled over to the snoring Steve and poured the Pyrex beaker of hot bacon grease into his torn polka-dot boxer shorts. Hungry puppy didn’t even wait for it to cool before chowing down like a hungry hog. 

“Good dog!” Choking back tears, Mary whispered, “Good dog!” 

—————————

Coelacanth -1

Coelacanth – 2 

Coelacanth – 3

The Declaration of Interdependence

The Bill of Obligations: Article One

The Bill of Obligations: Article Two

Dick-Taters

Absolute is not just a Vodka

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Sunday “Sonnet” for Sunny Sadie

14 Sunday Aug 2022

Posted by petersironwood in poetry

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

dog, life, love, pet, Puppy, Sadie, training

Today is Sonnet Sunday once again 

And yet — 

A sonnet seems too stiff and stuppy 

To talk about a brand new puppy. 

Sadie’s here

She’s here 

                                    SHE’S THERE

                                                                     Sadie here as well

She 

Sadie seems 

To be both here and there 

And everywhere. 

Like a self-promoting yahoo yuppy. 

Through the long dark night, she strives to keep us uppy

And when I get my morning coffee cuppy

Photo by Chevanon Photography on Pexels.com

Sadie wants to turn it downside uppy

Our furniture is under “l’attaque d’puppy”

After bearing all the catty claws

(Cats are good ignoring laws)

Tattered cushions on the edges

Launching lethally from ledges

The stoic chairs now become 

Just another source of chewy bome

Now Sadie finds her sleepy time 

A poementary rhythm rhyme

As all her joyous moments seem to be

A trick I hope she hopes to teach to me.

—————-

A suddenly springing something 

The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise

A Walk in the Park

The Life of the Party

Mind Walk

Choose Your Weapons

Sunsets

Happy Raven Angry Golfer

Bee Wise

Friends

Racism is Absurd

Lest We Forget

Life will find a Way

A Cat’s a Cat & That’s That.

Tales from an American Childhood on Amazon

The Impossible

05 Thursday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

courage, dog, flagpole, life, poem, poetry, story, wolf

IMG_9802

That shiny steel flag-pole that spired skyward in our back yard:

It was too high; it was too slippery. 

I was too weak; I was too young. 

I was just a little boy, barely four years. 

It was too thick; I couldn’t do it. 

There was no way; it was utterly and finally impossible. 

I’d tried a thousand times and never got a foot off the ground. 

My dad had stayed behind in Portugal (why?). 

My mom and I lived alone in Kent (why?). 

And, I tried — tried to climb that pole, tried, and tried. 

But some things, some things, you see, are never meant to be. 

One day — I played in the yard alone (where was Mom?) 

C66B81BF-A326-480A-90AA-CFA7CA0F8FDD_1_105_c

I could smell, feel, before I saw It charging: –That dog of fangs, 

That terrible wolf of the wilderness — god of tooth and claw

Barking its horrible happy knell of death —

Its ruff raised, its snarling snipe, its gurgling growl,

Black lips baring back those snipping, chattering, yellow teeth — 

Close and closer. I clambered and climbed the impossible pole, 

Shinnied to the very top and held on for a minute, for a lifetime. 

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Thank God for challenge; thank God for Life in all its fierce forms; 

Thank God for courage and — thank you God for vicious dogs. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Author Page on Amazon

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing! 

The Loud Defense of Untenable Positions

Index for Best Practices in Collaboration & Teamwork

Photo by Tomu00e1u0161 Malu00edk on Pexels.com

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