Ra Pet Bereavement!
Monday 10:20 p.m.
The dog was a hound. I loved the dog. It was there with me the day the Irishman walked by. Me and the dog were lying in the front garden of the council house in Bellshill. The heighth of summer. The Irishman was in green tweed, and had grey, shiny grey hair. The dog was lying in the front garden, on it's side, the four legs just stretched out, as if the dog was always ready to finish, and be in default mode. The old Irish guy spoke to ma maw about her old man, who'd died the year before. He said: Did he pass it on? She said: No tae me. Maybe it'll pass a generation, he said. The hound dog's head lifted off the green, green grass and it looks over to me and said: Hotboy, he's talking about you!
I said: Well, doggy, you are correct about that. But with these northern Irish people, well, they are always a mystery, are they not?
But you know it's you he's talking about, don't you? said the dog.
I'm nineteen, maybe twenty. It's the summer. They didn't tell me about my grandfather dying because they didn't want to upset me. I heard about it from my pal Jake a bit later. S0rry about your granda, he said.
The hound dog was the last of the dogs. The brother Davy had dogs. Then he did not hang around with the tinks so much and did not do the running of the dogs.
So, the dog is dying when I come home from Morocco. This is obvious. The way it looks at you. The weird swelling in it's belly. So, I had been away and then I came back and the dog was dying, although nobody said as much.
The night the dog died was very wet. Me and my wee brother were living in the council house then with my mother. The dead hound dog was lying in the lobby. I was worried about the crap falling out when we picked it up. But that was cool. The dead dog was cool. We buried him in the back garden. My wee brother left me with the dog when I told him to go away because of the wet and wind and rain, and me crying there. It was our Corunna. John Moore died there and was buried underneath this wet earth. Allah Akbar. Of course, God is great!
For all your pet bereavement needs please contact the Hut Manager!
The dog was a hound. I loved the dog. It was there with me the day the Irishman walked by. Me and the dog were lying in the front garden of the council house in Bellshill. The heighth of summer. The Irishman was in green tweed, and had grey, shiny grey hair. The dog was lying in the front garden, on it's side, the four legs just stretched out, as if the dog was always ready to finish, and be in default mode. The old Irish guy spoke to ma maw about her old man, who'd died the year before. He said: Did he pass it on? She said: No tae me. Maybe it'll pass a generation, he said. The hound dog's head lifted off the green, green grass and it looks over to me and said: Hotboy, he's talking about you!
I said: Well, doggy, you are correct about that. But with these northern Irish people, well, they are always a mystery, are they not?
But you know it's you he's talking about, don't you? said the dog.
I'm nineteen, maybe twenty. It's the summer. They didn't tell me about my grandfather dying because they didn't want to upset me. I heard about it from my pal Jake a bit later. S0rry about your granda, he said.
The hound dog was the last of the dogs. The brother Davy had dogs. Then he did not hang around with the tinks so much and did not do the running of the dogs.
So, the dog is dying when I come home from Morocco. This is obvious. The way it looks at you. The weird swelling in it's belly. So, I had been away and then I came back and the dog was dying, although nobody said as much.
The night the dog died was very wet. Me and my wee brother were living in the council house then with my mother. The dead hound dog was lying in the lobby. I was worried about the crap falling out when we picked it up. But that was cool. The dead dog was cool. We buried him in the back garden. My wee brother left me with the dog when I told him to go away because of the wet and wind and rain, and me crying there. It was our Corunna. John Moore died there and was buried underneath this wet earth. Allah Akbar. Of course, God is great!
For all your pet bereavement needs please contact the Hut Manager!
posted by Hotboy at 10:25 PM
7 Comments:
What a spooky piece of writing- very atmospheric. Every dog has his day, I'm thinking. I had to look up Corunna.
Ion: I had to look up the bloggy to see what I'd written this morning. Dearie me! Hotboy
That must mean you're channelling clearly. Don't knock it.
I too have had pets that have gone...they are like family, it is so very sad when they leave us.
Lee Ann: We at the Pet Bereavement Institute know that every pet owner has a story to tell. Even those pets who died long ago have left a grief debt embedded in your psyche. Get your grief debt reduced! A straight ten percent off the top and no hard luck stories, please. Hotboy
This is more like it, the sort of story that leaves you wishing there was more. You should be a writer. Could you do a book of pet bereavement short stories, with an accompanying volume of tips for cleaning up the mess they leave? You would clean up at this time of year.
This might be your sort of thing -
http://almax.wordpress.com/2006/12/12/poetry-corner-4/
If I was on the payroll, I would have made this into a clickable link.
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