On Dogs, by Steve Barber
Wednesday, October 15 2008 @ 12:00 AM MST
Views: 337
Views: 337
Being dog owners ourselves, we found this both hilarious and probably far too accurate. We hope even the non-dog-lovers among you enjoy it as much as we did. Humor Editor
On Dogs, by Steve Barber
When you think about it, dogs have a pretty sweet life. They don't have to go to school and study hard to get ahead. They don't have to work for a paycheck. They don't even have to send out resumes. They still get fed and watered, they still get a warm bed to sleep in, and they still enjoy the love of the people who take care of them.
Dogs never have to worry about the effect a tanking economy might have on their 401(k). They never have to worry about nuclear proliferation. They can even sleep through presidential debates. Like I said, it's a sweet life.
There is, of course, that unfortunate "getting fixed" issue. Why is it called "getting fixed" when in reality it's getting broken?
I think about stuff like that a lot.
But that's a subject for a different article. This article is, after all, about poetry.
"Wait," I hear you say. "I thought this was about dogs."
Well, it is about dogs. Sensitive, caring dogs with an artistic bent. The kind of dogs who would probably have written poetry if they hadn't been traumatized as pups by having their genitals ripped off. It is for those poor creatures I write.
So, what kind of poetry might dogs have written were they so inclined? I believe that dogs, being creatures of few words, would probably tend to focus on Haiku, the Japanese poetical form of three lines of unrhymed poetry, presented in five-seven-five syllables. Since dogs are unable or unwilling to offer up their poetry here, I've decided to speak for them. So here, for the first time, I present to you, Dog Haiku:
#
Okay, throw the ball.
Where did it go? Where is it?
Go find it for me.
#
I think I'll bark now.
It seems like the thing to do.
I'm not sure why, though.
#
You know how I do
Disgusting things with my tongue?
Let me lick your face.
#
I left a present.
Well, not really a present,
On your bedroom rug
#
Oh, look. Over there.
That's Michael Vick, isn't it?
Hey, Michael. Let's "play"
#
No, it's not my fault,
You should have let me outside.
Hope you stepped in it.
#
I ate your homework,
Most of your answers were wrong,
You'll thank me later.
#
You're getting me "fixed?"
Why? I know nothing's broken.
You're cutting off what?
#
There you have it. My stab at Dog Haiku. Next week, Dog Limericks.
On Dogs, by Steve Barber
When you think about it, dogs have a pretty sweet life. They don't have to go to school and study hard to get ahead. They don't have to work for a paycheck. They don't even have to send out resumes. They still get fed and watered, they still get a warm bed to sleep in, and they still enjoy the love of the people who take care of them.
Dogs never have to worry about the effect a tanking economy might have on their 401(k). They never have to worry about nuclear proliferation. They can even sleep through presidential debates. Like I said, it's a sweet life.
There is, of course, that unfortunate "getting fixed" issue. Why is it called "getting fixed" when in reality it's getting broken?
I think about stuff like that a lot.
But that's a subject for a different article. This article is, after all, about poetry.
"Wait," I hear you say. "I thought this was about dogs."
Well, it is about dogs. Sensitive, caring dogs with an artistic bent. The kind of dogs who would probably have written poetry if they hadn't been traumatized as pups by having their genitals ripped off. It is for those poor creatures I write.
So, what kind of poetry might dogs have written were they so inclined? I believe that dogs, being creatures of few words, would probably tend to focus on Haiku, the Japanese poetical form of three lines of unrhymed poetry, presented in five-seven-five syllables. Since dogs are unable or unwilling to offer up their poetry here, I've decided to speak for them. So here, for the first time, I present to you, Dog Haiku:
#
Okay, throw the ball.
Where did it go? Where is it?
Go find it for me.
#
I think I'll bark now.
It seems like the thing to do.
I'm not sure why, though.
#
You know how I do
Disgusting things with my tongue?
Let me lick your face.
#
I left a present.
Well, not really a present,
On your bedroom rug
#
Oh, look. Over there.
That's Michael Vick, isn't it?
Hey, Michael. Let's "play"
#
No, it's not my fault,
You should have let me outside.
Hope you stepped in it.
#
I ate your homework,
Most of your answers were wrong,
You'll thank me later.
#
You're getting me "fixed?"
Why? I know nothing's broken.
You're cutting off what?
#
There you have it. My stab at Dog Haiku. Next week, Dog Limericks.