dog walking
one man and his … where’s my dog?
let’s make one thing clear
it wasn’t MY idea
to go on the walk
in fact I baulked
when I looked outside and saw the weather
the rain had stopped raining the water was draining but whatever
you’d have to say it was still pretty soaking
if you’re thinking of exercise you must be joking
so I’d have preferred to defer the whole thing
but no
Stanley plainly wanted to go
whining and mithering like a so-and-so
so
I finally conceded
speedily clipped on the lead and proceeded
but was he happy?
basically
no
over the fields he acted distracted
like a haunted dog that could only be contacted
by ouija board or canine shaman
‘cos I kept on calling his name and
clearly it was having zero effect
no rapport, no connect
between master and dog, man and beast
I mean – he could’ve given me a nod at least
but every sniff was a full blown retreat
when we finally made the hill
he kept on hanging back until
I was forced to march up the slope to fetch him
like ten minutes walking had over-stretched him
I mean maybe something else upset him
but WHAT?
the nearest dog was just a dot
on the horizon
I was none the wiser
and neither
was Stan
he didn’t even want the treat in my hand
deaf and blind to all my whistling
stubbornly resisting
any attempt
to tempt
him on
if I hadn’t run back and fastened the lead he’d be gone
who knows where
to a land of lost lurchers somewhere
over the rainbow
where bluebirds fly and dogs just lie all day in the window
staring out mournfully
sniffing at tripe sticks scornfully
like he’s treated despicably
till predictably
I give in and take him for a walk
and for no apparent reason he cuts it short
fine
next time
I’m totally getting a cat
nobody talks about walks and all that
lightning stan
by the feel of it we’re in for a storm
Stanley’s lying out on the lawn
I show him the lead; he shows me a yawn
same
this humid weather drives me insane
it feels like I’ve got a sponge for a brain
I say c’mon stan
reluctantly he stands
a petulant pet obeying commands
the walk’s a drag
a bit of a fag
air, bees, flowers – everything sags
I’m irritable, itchy
the horses by the gate look twitchy
everything, even the light feels glitchy
all at once a thump of thunder
gods in heaven bumper to bumper
(I’m way too hot to think of a metaphor)
a restless stirring in the air
talons of static everywhere
Stanley trots on, doesn’t care
I mean – sure he’s deaf
dodgy right eye, cataract left
but that’s the nose of a michelin chef
can’t he smell a storm a-comin?
can’t he taste the air a-thrummin’?
(why does he think we’re suddenly runnin’?)
the very reluctant walker
it’s early in the morning
and I’m standing here, yawning
by the back door
stalling
halfheartedly calling
for Stanley to come crawling
from where he’s currently sprawling
like a starfish on Xanax
or Jean-Paw Marat in a house of wax
hanging out the bath after fifty whacks
dramatically slumped
fatally bumped
not at all zesty, the flipside of pumped
canine flatline, doggie defunct
a string-cut puppet, totally junked
carelessly dumped
on the sitting room sofa
a laid-up,
paid-up
free-style loafer
at the kinda
insider
trade show you go for
the slacker campaigns you’re totally known for
lifestyle guidance, juicy hacks
to flip your potential and loaf to the max
innovative ways to recline and relax
the apostate
of agitate
the kinda mind
even Frankenstein couldn’t animate
numero zero
zilch pzazz
the nap in snappy, the Zees in jazz
giving it nearly everything he has
which isn’t really an awful lot
and is he ready for his walk yet?
(no, he is not)
the second coming (eventually)
with apologies to W.B. Yeats, who maybe had dogs and would understand
Turning and turning in the widening path
The lurcher cannot hear the owner;
Walks fall apart; patience cannot hold;
Dog anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The off-lead time is lost, and everywhere
The ceremony of exercise is doomed;
The beast lacks all conviction, while the owner
Is full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Stanley’s never coming back goddamn.
Coming back! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of It’s Me or the Dog
Troubles my sight: somewhere there in acres of forest
A shape with lurcher’s body and the head of a mop,
A gaze blank and witless as a sheep
Is moving its arthritic thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of indignant forest squirrels.
The clapping starts again: but now he knows
That ten years of patient training
Were vexed to nightmare by a cloddish head,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last
Slouches towards baffled Jim to be warned
taking god for a walk
And God created Dog
which you’d have to think was a little bit odd
given She was already everything and nothing
but goes to show The Girl wasn’t bluffing
when She said unto Man
I am what I am
(although: disclaimer
that mightn’t be God but Gloria Gaynor)
either way it pretty much covers all bases
how immanence works in the strangest of places
in the end, though
who knows?
maybe God just needed an independent nose
to sniff out Her mighty works with emotion
(and anoint with a sprinkle of doggy devotion)
appointment with bill
Stanley
grandly
walks on
two small lurchers hanging on
his every sniff
every tail wag and leg lift
like attentive courtiers
or tip-oriented porters
keeping a valued customer
at close quarters
‘Pepper’s in love’ says Bill
‘Disgraceful!
but they’re having a lovely time…’
as we chat and climb
slowly through the wood
slogging through the claggy mud
talking generally about stuff
like isn’t life strange
and how you have to change
continually adapting
to the next thing happening
like this old friend of his
Chris
known him for years
wife suddenly dies
and now he has to try
rebuild his entire life
‘It’s hard,’ says Bill
‘but nothing stands still
you have to keep going until
you don’t
anyway – I hope you won’t
mind if we go via the shack?
there’s a bit of kit
I need to get back…’
so we stop at the shack
and he sneaks round the back
for the key
then he
opens the corrugated door
and I get to see
what the old shack’s for:
all the gear the volunteers use to keep
the wood in shape
and the pathways neat
and he rummages inside
as I hold the door wide
till he finds what he wants and steps outside
with an old and beautiful
wooden handled scythe
and he stands there smiling
posing with the thing
‘Who am I?’ he says
‘I bet you can’t guess’
and I don’t WANT to say ‘Death’
because – well
Bill’s not been in the best of health
and that story he told
about his old
friend Chris
was too fresh
in my mind
‘Old Father Time?’
I say
‘Yes – or DEATH’ says Bill
‘still
much the same thing
I’ll just lock up
and we can carry on walking’
is that fur enough
it was wet
absolutely the wettest yet
if there’s been a wetter day
I have to say
I forget
but after a lot of toing and froing
about whether or not we’d be going
walking, or maybe rowing
because the streets were overflowing
with water
and maybe we oughta
be staying indoors
with our hands and our paws
draped over the couch
waiting till the sun came out
the sensible choice without a doubt
hell no
we decided to go
and obviously
when I say ‘we’
I mean ‘me’
because Stanley
was nonplussed
looking at me with level disgust
as I optimistically thrust
the lead in his direction
(dropping ten points in his general affection)
so…WAS it wet?
buoy – you bet
in Italiano
era bagnato
in French you might say
c’était mouillé
either way
the result’s the same:
a pet gets wet and I’m to blame
however
despite the weather
the biblical cataracts
kids were out playing a football match
wildly splashing down then up
happy as crabs in the Crustacean Cup
Stanley grimaced
as dog was his witness
the dumbest thing
he’d ever witnessed
he was equally aghast
when we passed
a woman and her dachshund
in matching macs und
boots
kitted out for tough pursuits
survivalists out on an expedition
all the gear for any condition
Stanley
stared at me
with a look
he took
from the mean look book
(Stanley should know; he’s a connoisseur)
it meant: ‘And you drag me out in just my fur’
snack rabbit
Stanley was standing
off in the distance
and notwithstanding
my whistling insistence
he showed a deal of dogged resistance
stopping where he was
and I saw it was because
he was furiously snacking
on something
compelling
he’d found in the grass
and I hated to think what that something was
so I hurried over
and as I got closer
lost my composure
because what I saw was grosser
than anything you’d see on a horror film poster:
a particularly ripe and reeky rabbit
a deceased easter bunny with a belly full o’maggit
absolutely gross
an ex bugs’ bunny th-th-th-that’s all folks
one decidedly final dose
of goodnight bright eyes adios
I won’t water shit down:
this rotten ol’cottontail was pound for pound
the most hideous dinner a dog ever found
and suddenly hey presto
he’s tucking in with gusto
all fright, al fresco
abracadaver
doggy mind over dodgy matter
who the hell knows
why a dog with a nose
so super-sensitive
would think
such a stink
was representative
of the finest feast a dog could eat?
a canine Michelin, three star treat?
and it makes you feel a bit of a lummox
buying dog food for sensitive stomachs
when he dines like a fiend with a dirty habit
on a rotten ol’pile of rancid rabbit?
a messy confession
this is a little difficult to talk about
but when I took Stanley walkabout
he unexpectedly squatted
and before I spotted
what was happening
he took a huge dump
like he was a monstrous, liquefied poo pump
or something
his tail a handle for vigorous pumping
oh no no no STANLEY! I cried
yanking a poo bag from inside
my jacket – but really what’s the point
a tsunami of shit all OVER the joint
splattering the vicinity outside a house
like someone criminally and liberally doused
the pavement in a reeking, faecal mousse
because they REALLY didn’t like the housse
but I couldn’t very well just shrug and say fuck it
I ought to go home and fetch a bucket
just at that moment the owner emerged
and stared at the mess poor Stanley had purged
I apologised profusely
that my dog voided so loosely
immediately outside such a lovely home
and what could I possibly do to atone?
don’t worry he said I’ll hose it down
there’s a lot of tummy bugs going round
our puppy was like it the other day
shit happens, man – what can I say?
jim clayton 