Maureen Clifford © The Scribbly Bark Poet
You laughed when
you saw him, this tiny wee scrap
of black and
white fur edged with straw.
He sat on the
grass and he hadn’t a care
for he knew
that’s what gardens were for.
He’d dug up the
mulch ‘neath the roses of red
and he’d buried
there the biggest bone.
So now he sat
guarding his dirty great prize
which he’d found
and now claimed as his own.
On the wooden
verandah where everyone left
their work boots,
muddy wellies, and shoes,
were some chewed
plastic forks, and a moth eaten toy
and a broken
strap – all his to choose.
Each one was a
treasure and precious to him
though he
certainly tried to ignore,
the rag in the
bucket along with the mop
used to wipe
puddles up from the floor.
He was only a
baby and mad as a snake
and quite often
he chased his own tail.
Just give me a
minute and catch it I will
though he
circled to no great avail.
Then he saw up
the driveway a big shiny Ute
approaching at
ponderous speed.
He was spitting
the dummy right there at the fence,
fur erect, though
there was no great need.
It was only a
neighbour just, coming to call
and hoping to
chat for a bit.
And she gave him
a scratch and a pat and a treat
which was an
immediate hit.
At the back of
the house was his Mum’s studio
she was there
right now throwing a pot.
With the wheel
going round in slow time as she worked
on the clay,
placing pattern and dot.
It was time for
a break anyway, so they walked
up the path to
the old cottage door,
where his
treasurers were strewn in a tasteful display
on the worn
boards of the timber floor.
He sat there and
gazed at her with loving eyes
that were brown
and would just melt your heart.
She noted the
pair of shoes chewed round the edge
and the broken
strap – now torn apart.
She could have
gone crook but she’d had pups before
and she knew
he’d abandon one day
his wilful
destructiveness, once he was working.
It was such a
small price to pay.
She gave him a
cuddle and rubbed his pink belly
he wriggled and
squirmed in great joy
and his little
tail wagged when he heard her voice say,
‘Bob you’re Mums
really beautiful boy’.
And everything
then was just right with his world
Oh it was just
as right as could be.
He knew that she
loved him and he was secure
this was home –
she was his family.
And this story
ends happily as some do
and ‘Tuggalong
Bob’ became feted
at local dog
trials – he was known far and wide
for his genes many
a bitch waited.
And the world
went full circle and time moved along,
the sun rose,
the moon set cross the land.
Bob fathered a
litter with Tuggalong Bess
a pregnancy
somewhat unplanned.
But each little
Pup found a home, fetched good prices,
the demand for
these pups was quite keen.
But they kept
one, a tiny wee black and white scrap,
who bred true to
the Tuggalong gene.
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