When I was a child — last Tuesday or so — I used to write poems. They were about as good as any 12-year-old’s poems, but I remember one or two of them, and I’m ready for bed, and I’m darned if I’m gonna miss a day of posting.
Anyway, to save my sinking sanity, my mum got me a dog when I turned 12. Alfie was a collie-mix, a medium-little dog who would accompany me on walks and sleep on my bed at night. Here are two poems I wrote about him at the time.
- Tumblebug Alfie, my little mutt,
- How do you get so covered with smutt?
- I looked at my dog, and soon I found
- It’s because he’s built so close to the ground.
(There was a now-forgotten second verse. Then…)
- Tumblebug Alfie, a-chewing on bones-some,
- with Alfie around, I’ll never feel lonesome.
- Happy and funny, but truly aboveable,
- There’s only one word to describe him: it’s “loveable”.
The second poem doesn’t make such strenuous efforts to rhyme. It also contains a bit of early-adolescent philosophising.
- I look at Alfie, lying there,
- Comfy, cozy, in a chair.
- “You shouldn’t be there, Alf,” I say.
- “I bet you feel guilty, eh?”
- He gives me such a sheepish stare,
- I wish I had a camera there.
- My bed’s another matter, though,
- And if you see the scene, you’ll know.
- When man from beast can’t be defined,
- Then neither has the stricter mind:
- When Alf is sleeping at the head,
- I’m on the other end of bed.
These writings from my youth no longer embarrass me as they once did. I must be ancient.