star lurcher
dogs
the return of the tripe stick kid
when I rattle the harness Stanley knows
it’s walkin’ time for the two amigos
amblin’ easy heading west
on the bluebell trail we love the best
but jes’ hang on a gosh darn second now
being as how they’s a mess a’cows
haulin’ hoof in yonder field
so I keep ‘em peeled
keep Stanley on the lead
sure not wantin’ me no stampede
I stay focused
and one thing I notice
thems ‘ain’t the usual friesian
thems a whole other other dairy demon
a couple dozen ‘ornery ayrshires
tho’ could be herefords to be fair t’ya
they look this way with a mean complexion
we head off quick in the other direction
maybe they think I’m the gosh darn’ farmer
or some other kinda cowboy charmer
either way I guess it mighty politic
to dodge into the other field double quick
‘course – they up hoof n’follow us
swing round suddenly and corrall us
between a hedge and a fallen tree
and lawsakes I think it’s the end o’me
hell – I’m no expert but even I know
if you’re cornered by cows you let yer dog go
so I unclip his lead and he dives thru’ a gap
to save himself and get help perhaps
then I turn to address the advancing beasts
and per’pare myself the good lor’ to meet
the next thing I know Stanley’s galloping back
shooting his gums at the dairy pack
like a gosh durn sheriff riding to my assistance
and the herd hauls off to the lush green distance
‘mighty obliged to you, pardner – that was neat’
as I hand him a plug from my bag of treats
and I straighten my hat, and I scraggle his head
‘I’m thru with cows; let’s see bluebells instead’
Stanley the Lurcher shares a few comforting lines on Death
Isaac Newton, Cleopatra, Shakespeare – all died
No wonder I’m reluctant to go outside
Dying is as natural as scratching your ears
it just goes on a few more years
Death is the undiscovered country from whose bourn no lurcher returns
just a few less treats and a few more worms
I think I speak for most dogs
when I say there’s no such thing as ghost dogs
Verily did’st I meet Death waiting in the market
and ventur’d most bravely to tug its cloak and task it
What is Death? And lo! it did blow a wormy gasket
so loudly did it laugh-eth
and ghastly did gaspeth
embarrassed was I the joke not to graspeth
tempted to say forget my question – sorry I ask’d it
for I woulds’t feel bad if Death suddenly cark’d it
but Death doing its best its corpsing to mask it
sayeth Why! Death be but a snooze in an underground basket!
(and I came from that place thinking Death may be sick
but jes’ ‘cos you’re eternal why be a dick)
Stanley the Stoic
If you would wish to improve,
seek not to move
overmuch
from the sofa and such
but be content
to be thought ignorant
Happiness consists
in being able to resist
the worming tablets
they hide in your dish
No lurcher is truly free
until they are unclipped from the lead
Lurchers are not disturbed by things
excepting children with violins
There is only one way to happiness
and that is to cease
worrying about treats
that are unavailable to eat
beyond the power of our will
in a tupperware box on the windowsill
The key is to keep company
only with dogs who uplift you,
whose presence calls forth your best
(I’m not great with collies, but I’m okay with the rest)
We have two ears and one mouth
so we can listen twice as much as we speak
(also a tail
which is useful as well)
It’s not what happens to you
but how you react to it that matters
(it wasn’t me that left the sofa in tatters)
The 2022 Lurcholympics
And it’s a very warm welcome to the 2022 Lurcholympics
Let me walk you through a few characteristics:
We’ve got 100, 200 and 1500 minute Snoozing
The Squeakathon with Annoying Toy of their choosing
We’ve got Questionable Slumping
Table Thumping
Head Bumping
Lead Grumping
We’ve got Chewdo
Tail-kwondo
Rope Wrestling
We’ve got Shallow Water Paddling
Snack Haggling
Artistic Scrabbling
Freestyle Limping
We’ve got Find Ball, Treat Lifting, Basketpaw
We’ve got Sprint Door
And the latest competition draw:
The What The Hell’s She Barking For
We’ve got Synchronised Sniffing
Athletic Rug Writhing
Moaning & Mithering
Sofa Sliding
And of course, the five events of the modern Petathlon:
The Sixty Metre Horribles
The Sly Jump, Try Jump, Why Jump
The Treat Put and the Eight Hungry Minutes
And new this year to test your pet’s limits?
Barktastic Gymnastics!
I do hope you enjoy our extensive programme
Ready for the day’s events? Hell – I know I am!
dog heaven
So… mum dies and goes to dog heaven
gets met at the gates by a St Bernard called Kevin
who takes her coat, asks how she is
(grimaces… says AWKS!…apologises)
then with a strum of his bone-shaped harp
the safety gates tremble and part
Kevin slips a harness on Mum
and leads her into the Canine Kingdom
and all the clouds are fluffy white baskets
and all the water bowls silver caskets
and all the waiters Bichon Frise pups
and the maitre D’s a Dobermann in a tux
and the angels are Pointers, Lurchers and Spaniels
with clip-on wings and golden sandals
and Paul O’Grady says hi how are ya
surrounded by crowds of adoring chihuahuas
‘This way,’ says Kevin, ‘No tour’s complete
without you getting a chance to meet
the owner of this awesome squad…’
and he leads her into the sight of DOG
stanley or ralph
Stanley has such a vocal range
you’d think it strange
a dog with no formal training
can find such sounds without straining
an appalling range of oral gimmicks
he conjures through his larynx
then stops and stares and blinks
inscrutable as the sphinx
and your heart sinks
as you struggle to think
what the SHIT can be happening
it’s mournful and maddening
in equal measure
the polar opposite of pleasure
like a tuxedoed lurcher
disguised as a tenor
loped onstage at the MET
to deliver their worst performance yet
and the crowd sit silently stunned
because they’ve just seen the depths of performance plumbed
and programmes are rudely and rapidly thumbed
and a queue backs-up in the foyer for a refund
all I mean to say
is that Stanley often likes to display
in a most emphatic & idiosyncratic way
whether or not he’s okay
and it’s truly a thing to behold
so wild, yet so controlled
like a wolf enrolled
in primal scream therapy
momentarily
forgetting it was a wolf
thinking instead it was a middle-aged guy called Ralph
suffering a crisis of mental health
and the group says Ralph – man – just let it out
till he stands, takes a breath, and opens his mouth
mutiny on the Stanley
I put it to you, sir
that you are one galumphing great hound, sir
d’ye understand me, sir?
a hirsute, uncouth cur, sir
a sybaritic, rule-breaking saboteur, sir
a chaos connoisseur, sir
with poorly coiffured fur, sir
d’ye concur, sir?
it is most unfortunate, sir
that you are cursed with an importunate manner, sir
and I have scrutinised, sir
how you have utilised, sir
those unfeasibly & unwieldy paws, sir
to cause havoc in every hammock, sir
d’ye demur, sir?
Damn yer gorgeous & appealing eyes, sir!
THIS IS MUTINY, SIR!
The Rime of the Ancient Astronaut
Argument: How an astronaut in a cheap, party shop beard and a spaceship dangerously like two toilet rolls duct taped together gets smashed off course by a storm of Kibble in the Constellation of Shar-Pei and crash lands on the planet Stanleynia; the strange things that befall him there, and how he doth make his return to Earth. And why he doth subsequently get chucked out of some kinda bougie, social media event.
PART ONE
I saw an ancient Astronaut
stand in line with a plate
so asked him very politely
to see his invite, mate
He whirled and fixed me furiously
with wild and wayward eye
his beard held on with string and tape
a kipper for a tie
‘There was a ship!’ the strange guest said
‘No one can deny it!’
I backed away a foot or so
as all around fell quiet
‘We blasted off from Space-X port
The crowds all cheered and whooped
– a whizz of stars, a space montage –
we landed on Venus, pooped
But coming back, tragedy struck!
We hit a shower of Kibble!
Many men died that fateful night
Our booster rockets crippled
Day after day, day after day
We stuck, no oomph nor motion
As idle as a cardboard ship
On a point of sale promotion
PART TWO
A ship hove by! Oh frightful sight!
The crew a pack of mutts
And at the door I think I saw
A lurcher going nuts
They towed us down to their planet
Hark to the tale I speak!
Every last seat was a sofa!
Every bone with a squeak!
A team of golden chihuahuas
dragged me to their leader
A scruffy old hound called Stanley
Asleep on a hairy two-seater
‘Say from where thou com’st, traveller?’
He spoke in speech most queer
(but then if you’re an alien dog
you’d sound all like Shakespeare)
‘Welcome to Stanleynia!’ he cried
‘I rule with iron paw
– the rate is just three treats a night
a double room is four’
I hardly slept in my basket
planning a quick escape
I stole a ship and up I ripped
before my guards awak’d
PART THREE
Since my return have I wandered
Press launch, party, soiree
Blagging whatever food I can score
From the all-you-can-eat buffet
And so, at this uncertain hour
My agony returns!
Until my ghastly tale is told
My gastric reflux burns!’
We bade him sit and clear his plate
But also called the bouncers
I liked the hustle but wanted muscle
To rule out further encounters
rescue dog
Out on our morning walk we found
the storm had brought an oak tree down
blocking our usual route
with its branches & roots
‘I think we can climb through’
I said optimistically
Stanley looked up at me uncertainly
‘Just pretend you’re a rescue dog’
The inevitable epilogue?
Stanley got stuck
so I had to go back and pick him up
he’s a big dog; it was a big production
in his case ‘Rescue Dog’ more of an instruction
jim clayton 