Where live those demons, where do they reside?
Long-stay lodgers, cluttering cavities,
residential tenants, hard to abide,
hard to accommodate … depravities.
Where live those phobias that tease and taunt?
Reckless wranglers, robbers of niche and nest.
Thieves, gypsies and thieves, that endlessly haunt
contentment; pull upon the softest leash.
Where live those mongrels, that doggedly drain
all sense from sensibility, larking
larrikins, bedroom bandits, once again
prove themselves mad, yes… barking!
. Where lives lunacy, where does it locate?
. It lives in a kennel, barks at the gate.

© Tim Grace, 15 September 2012

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To the reader: I think dog-ness needs to be recognised as a disability. My canine residents are daily afflicted by a host of phobias; translated into all manner of quirky behaviours. Between stimulus and response their processing is spontaneous and erratic; predictably, the product is most often a “dog’s breakfast”. As chaos calms, there’s a small sense of reflection but never enough to suggest that sanity will ever prevail.

To the poet: As a descriptive piece, this poem delivers a litany of pet perturbances. I love my dogs but they do have some very annoying habits that warrant occasional relegation to the metaphorical dog-house. Obviously, it was important to workshop the sonnet. I’m happy to report that both dogs agreed it was a perfect likeness of the other.

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Dog House