The poetic thoughts your pet is having

3 commentsLucy Vickery 14 August 2015 16:51

I wandered lonely as a cloud

My request for poems by a pet who is cheesed off with its owner generated an entertaining parade of bullied, misunderstood and condescended-to creatures. The contempt in Basil Ransome-Davies’s closing couplet, written from the perspective of a bolshie moggy, speaks for the majority:

He wants affection, he can kiss a duck.
It’s what my mother told me: bipeds suck.

I especially liked Sylvia Fairley’s homicidal preying mantis and Bill Greenwell’s scheming goldfish. Equally impressive, and unlucky to be just out of the frame, were Hugh King, John Priestland, George Tetley, John-Paul Marney and Dave East. Those entries printed below earn their authors £25 apiece. This week’s top dog is Martin Parker. He gets £30.

Martin Parker

I’m a goldfish who’s dejected

that my habitat’s infected

and is neither fit to swim in nor to drink.

And I think my owner oughta

come and change my stagnant water

which is so full of detritus

that I’m blinded and I might as

well be swimming round in pea soup or in ink.

For it’s hard to find my way round

in my pitch-black piscine playground

without damage from the mini clockwork shark

and the sharply-pointed anchor

plus the jagged plastic tanker,

and — enough to make you clench your

cheeks — my owner’s upper denture

glowing ghostly phosphorescent in the dark.

George Simmers

I’ve few complaints, for goodness sake,

For you know how to treat a snake.

You keep me warm, you keep me fed,

And yet there’s something must be said:

Each day, all day, I lie here curled

And never see the wider world,

In which there are, or so I hear,

Poor twerps whom I’d strike daft with fear —

Ophidophobes! I have this dream

In which folks tremble, gibber, scream

And scarper at the sight of me —

Oh I’d enjoy it, horribly,

Maybe in Waitrose checkout queue?

Now, wouldn’t that appeal to you?

I’m sure you see the sense of this.

Yours truly, Snakey. Kiss-kiss. Hiss.

Brian Allgar

The canine nose disdains the rose,

Preferring doggy-do.

Forget Dior — we dogs adore

The scent of pee and poo.

And when I’ve found a steaming mound,

A sausage or a pellet,

A stick or hoop of fragrant poop,

I have to stop and smell it.

I gladly greet a bitch in heat

By sniffing her behind;

In street or park, I leave my mark

Where other dogs have signed.

Each cherished pong deserves a song,

A symphony of pets.

But there’s one smell that’s nasal hell —My master’s cigarettes!

G.M. Davis

He tells me ‘sit!’ and fetch!’ and ‘heel!’.

His orders drive me barmy.

This life is hell, I might as well

Be in the bloody army.

It makes no difference how I feel.

I’m only a Dalmatian.

He’s Captain Jack, he leads the pack

In his imagination.

I hardly get to sniff a bum

Before he jerks my collar.

I want to rut, it’s natural, but

‘Behave yourself!’ he’ll holler.

A dog can dream, and dreams that come

When all the world is sleeping

Show blood that drains from severed veins

And someone’s widow weeping.

Jayne Osborn

You let me out to fly around each day;

I’ve read the headlines in the Telegraph,

yet when you talk the only thing you say

is ‘Who’s a pretty boy?’ Don’t make me laugh.

It’s time you realised I have a brain

(OK, it is a bird one and it’s small);

if I hear Who’s a pretty boy? again

I’ll shit on your new sofa. That’s not all —

I’ll start to peck your velvet curtains too;

they won’t look half as posh with lots of holes.

I want to have a proper chat with you,

about the NHS, opinion polls,

— or anything, it really doesn’t matter,

but please — no more inane, moronic chatter.

Max Ross

I am an independent cat. I spurn

My lady’s constant need to stroke my tail.

I purr, of course; in doing so I earn

The finest cut of fish. I draw a veil

Over my dark sonatas in the night

Composed in secret pleasure. How she’d hate

To know what I have killed. The moron might

Stop my safaris past her garden gate.

I let her think that she has won affection

When I force myself to rest beside her hand;

And though I loathe our daily interaction

I just pretend her wish is my command.

How fortunate the feline fates have cast her

In the role of slave, with me her clever master.

Your next challenge is to submit an extract from the school report of a well-known author, living or dead but please specify. Please email entries (150 words maximum), wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 26 August.

Tags: Pets, Poetry

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