New Life
pup snap series
The litter of ten, when we arrive,
late afternoon, is a remnant of three -
Gretel the breeder looks worn out - she's already
passed over seven pups with hints and food-kits,
looking her last on her cherished creatures.
Ours is number eight, whom she called Fineline,
and we call Pink. She is plump, Dux of the litter,
she says, ideal for breeding from. Not by us.
Pink will train as therapy assistant,
visitor to hospitals and old-folks' homes.
Tearful Gretel passes the new life
to my tearful wife. Oops, Pink squirms,
slips from their grasp, soft parcel,
falls between them to the ground - unhurt.
Driving home Pink snuggles into her new human;
the full moon rising travels with us,
as once with my first-born in Scotland.
*
How will the resident dog accept the new pup?
He's been grieving since the old dog died.
Here's your new playmate, uncle - enjoy!
And he does, reminding her constantly who's boss.
In time plump pup may outweigh her uncle,
then we'll see who wins the tugs-of-war.
At bedtime fair play is hard to arrange -
Pink settles by her mistress's bed,
whimpering and grumbling, unused to all this.
*
First visit to vet - 'losing sleep?' he asks.
'Bed pup down in the furthest room -
with the radio on.' Doesn't specify what music.
'Diet? ditch that phony "natural diet" - pasta,
kibble, yoghurt, mince-meat. What wild dog eats
in the least like that? Buy our dry food for pups.'
He hefts it to my car. We drive to my wife's
psychotherapy class. 'Is Pink welcome?'
'We love her, but she would be a distraction.'
All the women in the class shrill their love.
*
In the car she climbs from the floor
to the driver's lap, chin on his wrist,
eyes closed. At home she prances,
lollops about, flops, falls instantly asleep.
Max Richards
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