A tough little dog born in L. A.,

you moved to the east coast

and grew up by the bay.


Jack Russell terrier who took shit

from none; wiry frame, fur like burlap,

sturdy legs built for digging;

a grave expression always on your

benign canine countenance

made by your overhanging

brow, rusty mustache, and wise

old man’s frown, like a four-legged

Mark Twain without the cigar,

black spots dappling your white suit.


You used to spend hours chasing

skunks, never escaped

getting sprayed.  We’d pick you

up and plunk you in the big

soapstone sink, wash you off

with solution as you patiently

shivered, till we let you outside

where you’d shake yourself off, 

using the grass as a towel.


You loved swimming after thrown

tennis balls, unafraid of the waves

or the turbulent surf.  The game

didn’t end until you gave the signal,

lying down in the seaweed

and the sand with your prize

like a sphinx

ruminating on the world

you held in your paws.


Note:  The author apologizes for the inadvertent semi-plagiarism of the title of the last post.  There’s a book out now called The Secret Lives of Objects.  In the event of a kerfuffle, I’d be more than happy to change the title of the poem to something else.  In fact, from now on, let it be called just that:  Something Else.


One thought on “Yankee

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s