Stanley

lightning stan

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

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 valley of the vet

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

it’s quite a test
getting Stan to the vet’s

here we are
trying to coax him into the car
which I have to say is no mean feat
when the car’s a mini and the dog’s a sheep
we can’t even tempt him in with treats
the vet said nil by mouth
but without
something delicious
Stanley’s suspicious
tries to swerve us
not a little nervous
resisting with fervour
(standard behaviour
for your average lurcher)

but if getting there’s a little problematical
emerging at the surgery the change is radical
Stanley a wholly other kinda animal
moody and tragical
sturdy and static
moodily dramatic
standing in the stressy waiting room traffic
including
an Italian Greyhound exuding
all the control and canine restraint
of the well-trained puppy she patently ‘ain’t
bouncing around
four paws off the ground
because being there frightens her
or the owner’s feeding her helium to lighten her
or gravity simply doesn’t apply to her
Stanley gives her a soulful look
like a priest with a paw on the holy book
Yea, though we bark through the valley of the vet
we will fear no evil and hopefully get
a treat or two when the deed is done
and they slip on our harness and lead us home

the very reluctant walker

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

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)

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

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

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

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)

Stanley & me in a garden on planet Earth

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Stanley lies flat out on the grass
slow, not fast
asleep
while the morning’s shadows softly creep
and bees move fatly
flower to flower matter-of-factly
applying themselves to the business of existence
as I sit next to Stanley admiring their persistence

we’re just back from our walk
and if dogs could talk
this one would say
hey! WHAT a day!
if I had my way
I’d stay
like this forever
or until it’s time for dinner
or treats, or whatever

and Stan – I humbly beg your pardon
for disturbing the tranquillity of the garden
but you know one day this’ll all be gone, right?
and people and dogs will have to move on quite
quickly
because they’ve made the planet so sickly
with the hydrocarbons they’ve way too thickly
sprayed about
and after crazy years of lazing about
they suddenly start gazing about
with telescopes
making plans and copious notes
giving televised lectures
to CEOs and policy directors
about building an interplanetary Ark
while the ocean’s blaze and the skies grow dark
and lotteries are held in city parks
to see who stays and who embarks

I don’t know if you know this, Stanley
but apparently
for what it’s worth
the nearest habitable planet to Earth
is Proxima Centauri b
which I have to say is news to me
not that I follow astronomy
that closely
because – honestly?
I get lost in all the knotty specifics
of time, ships and astrophysics)

Proxima Centauri b
is a planet orbiting pretty neatly
a dwarf star that heats it nice and sweetly
supporting conditions for life completely
bees, humans, dogs called Stanley

the thing is, though
it’s a long way to go
4 point 2 light years or so
and you’d no doubt say
if you could talk
a bit too far for a dog to walk

and even if you COULD take flight
and travel at the speed of light
(which Einstein says is OUT OF ZE QVESTION!
then sneezes and pulls a crazy expression)
it would still take a while
one light year being 6 trillion miles
so … roughly 4 years
after 4 MINUTES you’d be bored to tears

but you see
there’s no need
to get worked up about time and speed
because speaking philosophically
you, me
and the bees
Stanley
we’re just the same as Proxima Centauri b
made of the same stuff, atomically
born from the one, primeval womb
that birthed all existence in the cosmic boom
so I wouldn’t worry if I were you
you’re such a good boy, Stan – have another chew

the genesis of stanley

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

When God created Dog
He made Him in likeness of himself
being a scruffy, gruff
but lovable kinda lurcher
with a head for heights
and He named this dog Rufus

When Rufus had lived 200 years
he begat Toffee.
After Toffee was begatted
Rufus lived 800 more years
which was pretty good going
for a long-legged dog.
But then he died.

When Toffee had lived 4000 years
he begat a puppy
he did call Leon (also sometimes Sweet Nuts)
which was a minor miracle
because Toffee hadn’t thought much
about begatting since he was about 2000.
But then he died.

And when Sweet Nuts nee Leon had lived 95 years
he begat a puppy
he calleth George Michael
but not George Michael the singer
George Michael from Arrested Development
anyway
the begatting was the main thing
and it all went off nicely enough

When George Michael was 223
he begat a puppy called Fig
Fig lived a ludicrously long time
begatting as he went
the last begattee being
Rascal, short for Raskalnikov
because he always looketh
distracted and kinda shifty

Rascal lived – I don’t know,
name your figure –
until he didst begat
a puppy called Stanley
and Rascal said
this puppy shall be a boon to us
(whatever a boon is)
and though he shalt eat us out of hut and home
it shalt be totally worth it

and that was that
the end of the begat
(sadly undisputed;
Stanley came neutered)

like clockwork

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

you always know when it’s eight o’clock
because Stanley paces around a lot
testing your patience to the max
roaming the kitchen playing his sax
blowing with such a jazzy wheeze
howls n’trills in minor keys
toots n’squeals
whatever he feels
till you cry to heaven and serve his meals

you always know when it’s six o’clock
because Stanley stares like a dog in shock
hoping you’ll find his vacant expression
a picture of such deep depression
you’ll want to drag him from the brink
and send him to a canine shrink
for a course of therapy
(or the cheaper remedy:
an early serving of his favourite recipe)

is that fur enough

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

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’