Also see Dog Humor, Dog Page Ideas, Pets and Pet Death.

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Puppies

(Marguerite Gode)

Puppies
Are squirmy
And wiggly
And cuddly,
And when it rains
Their feet are mud-puddly.

They chew things
And strew things
In puppy-dog prankings,
And waggle their way
Out of scoldings
And spankings.


Puppy Poem

You can't buy loyalty they say;
we bought it though the other day.
You can't buy friendship, tried and true;
well just the same, we bought that too.
We made our bid, and on the spot;
bought love and faith and a whole lot
of happiness; so all in all
the purchase price was pretty small.
We bought a simple trusting heart;
that gave devotion from the start.
If you think these things are not for sale,
buy a brown eyed pup with a waggily tail.


Dogs and Weather

(Winifred Welles)

I'd like a different dog
For every kind of weather-
A narrow greyhound for a fog,
A wolfhound strange and white,
With a tail like a silver feather
To run with in the night,
When snow is still,
And winter stars are bright.

In the fall I'd like to see
In answer to my whistle,
A golden spaniel look at me.
But best of all for rain
A terrier, hairy as a thistle,
To trot with fine disdain
Beside me down the soaked,
Sweet-smelling lane.


This Old Dog

I'm getting on in years,
My coat is turning gray.
My eyes have lost their luster,
My hearing's just okay.
I spend my days dreaming
Of earlier times with you
When I could run and jump and play
And fetch the ball you threw.

I remember our first visit,
I was coming to you free
Hoping you would take me in
And keep me company
I wasn't young or handsome,
Two years I'd roamed the street.
There were scars upon my face,
I hobbled on my feet.

I could sense your disappointment
As I left my prison cage.
Oh, I hoped you would accept me
And look beyond my age.
You took me out of pity,
I accepted without shame.
Then you grew to love me,
And I admit the same.

I have shared with you your laughter,
You have wet my fur with tears.
We've come to know each other
Throughout these many years.
Just one more hug this morning
And as you drive away
Know I will think about you
Throughout your busy day.

I'll faithfully wait here for you
And though my head's a fog
My heart is yours forever
I promise--
This old dog


A Forever Dog

(Calgary Humane Society)

I am a forever dog, not an 'until dog'.
I'm not an "until you get bored with me" dog,
an "until you find a girlfriend" dog,
an "until you have a baby" dog,
an "until you have to move" dog,
an "until you have no time" dog,
or an "until I get old" dog.

I'm a forever dog.
If you can't give me forever
then I'm not your dog.
It's that simple.


Charlie

(Rea Williams)

He came to us one cold March day
Under gray and blustery skies,
A lonely waif with drooping tail
And a plea in soft brown eyes.

I'll do my best to earn my keep
His manner seemed to say,
Please take me in--I have no home
I was dumped along the way.

Our hearts were touched by his eloquent plea
So we gave him a place to stay,
We've never been sorry he came to us
For we love him more each day.

He has indeed made us glad--
Our efforts have been rewarding.
He spends his days showing his love
His nights on duty guarding.

Imaginary goblins and boogers he finds
And things that go bump in the night,
But Charlie is there to fend them off
To show our decision was right.

Now his ears are up, his eyes have a glow
There's no longer a droopy tail,
Charlie knows he's at last found love--
He's come to the end of the trail.


Lone Dog

(Irene Rutherford McLeod)

I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;
I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;
I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;
I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.

I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,
A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,
Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,
But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,
Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.
O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,
Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!


Alone Again

I wish someone would tell me
What it is that I've done wrong,
Why I have to stay chained up
And left alone so long.

They seemed so glad to have me
When I came here as a pup.
There were so many things we'd do
While I was growing up.

They couldn't wait to train me
As companion and as friend.
They told me they would never fear
Being left alone again.

The children said they'd feed me,
Said they'd brush me every day,
They'd play with me and walk me,
If only I would stay.

But now the family hasn't time,
They often say I shed.
They won't allow me in the house,
Not even to be fed.

The children never walk me.
They always say, "Not now!"
I wish that I could please them.
Won't someone tell me how?

All I have is love, you see,
I wish they would explain,
Why they said they wanted me
Then left me on a chain.


The Power of the Dog

(Rudyard Kipling)

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumor, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find, it's your own affair,
But you have given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With it's whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!);
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good.
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying our Christian clay.
Our lives are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve;
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long--
So why in--Heaven (before we go there)
Should we give out hearts to a dog to tear?


Beau

(Jimmy Stewart 1908-1997)

He never came to me when I would call
Unless I had a tennis ball,
Or he felt like it,
But mostly he didn't come at all.

When he was young
He never learned to heel
Or sit or stay,
He did things his way.

Discipline was not his bag
But when you were with him things sure didn't drag
He'd dig up a rosebush just to spite me,
And when I'd grab him, he'd turn and bite me.

He bit lots of folks from day to day;
The delivery boy was his favorite prey.
The gas man wouldn't read our meter,
He said we owned a real man-eater.

He set the house on fire
But the story's long to tell.
Suffice it to say that he survived
And the house survived as well.

On the evening walks, and Gloria took him,
He was always first out the door.
The Old One and I brought up the rear
Because our bones were sore.

We would charge up the street with Mom hanging on,
What a beautiful pair they were!
And it if was still light and the tourists were out,
They created a bit of a stir.

But every once in awhile, he would stop in his tracks
And with a frown on his face look around.
It was just to make sure that the Old One was there
And would follow him where he was bound.

We are early-to-bedders at our house--
I guess I'm the first to retire.
And as I'd leave the room he'd look at me
And get up from his place by the fire.

He knew where the tennis balls were upstairs
And I'd give him one for awhile.
He would push it under the bed with his nose
And I'd fish it out with a smile.

And before very long
He'd tire of the ball
And be asleep in his corner
In no time at all.

And there were nights when I'd feel him
Climb upon our bed
And lie between us,
And I'd pat his head.

And there were nights when I'd feel this stare
And I'd wake up and he'd be sitting there
And I'd reach out my hand and stroke his hair.

And sometimes I'd feel him sigh
and I think I know the reason why.

He would wake up at night
And he would have this fear
Of the dark, of life, of lots of things,
And he'd be glad to have me near.

And now he's dead.
And there are nights when I think I feel him
Climb upon our bed and lie between us,
And I pat his head.

And there are nights when I think
I feel that stare
And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,
But he's not there.

Oh, how I wish that wasn't so,
I'll always love a dog named Beau.


When I am Old

(Author Unknown)

I shall wear Turquoise and soft gray sweatshirts
and a bandana over my silver hair
and I shall spend my Social Security Checks
on Sweet Wine and My Dogs
and sit in my house on my well-worn chair, and listen to my dog's breathing.

I will sneak out in the middle of a warm Summer night
and take my dogs for a run, if my old bones will allow
and when people come to call, I will smile and nod as I show them my dogs
and talk of them and about them . . .
The Ones so Beloved of the Past and the Ones so Beloved of Today

I still will work hard cleaning after them and mopping
and feeding them and whispering their names in a soft, loving way.
I will wear the gleaming sweat on my throat, like a jewel,
and I will be an embarrassment to my friends my family
who have not yet found the peace in being free
to have dogs as your Best Friends . . .

These friends who always wait, at any hour, for your footfall
and eagerly jump to their feet out of a sound sleep,
to greet you as if you are a God.
With warm eyes full of adoring love and hope
that you will stay and hug their big, strong necks
and kiss their dear sweet heads and whisper to them of your love
and the beautiful pleasure of their very special company . . .

I look in the mirror and see I am getting old.
this is the kind of woman I am and have always been.
Loving dogs is easy, they are part of me, accept me for who I am,
my dogs appreciate my presence in their lives
when I am old this will be important to me
you will understand when you are old . . . and if you have dogs to love, too.


Looks Can Be Deceiving

A man and his dog were walking along a road. The man was enjoying the scenery when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead.
He remembered dying, and that the dog had been dead for years. He wondered where the road was leading them. After a while they came to a high, white, stone wall along one side of the road. It looked like fine marble.
At the top of a long hill it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight.
When he was standing before it, he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother of pearl and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold.
He and the dog walked toward the gate and, as he got closer, he saw a man at a desk to one side. When he was close enough he called out, "Excuse me, where are we?"
"This is heaven, sir," the man answered.
"Wow! Would you happen to have some water?" the man asked.
"Of course, sir. Come right in and I'll have some ice water brought right up." The man gestured and the gate began to open.
"Can my friend," gesturing toward his doe, "come in too?" the traveler asked.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't accept pets."
The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going. After another long walk and at the top of another long hill, he came to a dirt road that led through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed. There was no fence.
As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, leaning against a tree and reading a book.
"Excuse me" he called to the reader, "Do you have any water?"
"Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there." The man pointed to a place that couldn't be seen from outside the gate. "Come on in."
"How about my friend here?" the traveler gestured to the dog.
"There should be a bowl by the pump," the man said.
They went through the gate and, sure enough, there was an old-fashioned hand pump with a bowl beside it. The traveler filled the bowl and took a long drink himself.
Then he gave some to the dog. When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man, who was standing by then, waiting for them.
"What do you call this place?" the traveler asked.
"This is heaven," was the answer.
"Well, that's confusing," the traveler said. "The man down the road said that was heaven too."
"Oh, you mean the place with the gold streets and pearly gates? Nope. That's hell."
"Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?"
"No. I can see how you might think so, but we're just happy that they screen out the folks who'll leave their best friends behind."


True Love

(Bill Tarrant, from the Wichita Eagle and Beacon)

I read in the paper the other day where a woman died and left $14 million to her 150 dogs.
I can hear 'em now. "That's stupid," the disgruntled will say. "Lots of people could have put that money to good use." And likely, among that group of worthy recipients would be--themselves.
But I ask the critics of this woman's will to consider this:
Remember that time you came by a pup? All the doubts? Puddles on the carpet. Gnawed shoelaces. Milk drips on the kitchen floor. But for reasons of your own the pup moved in.
And how did he come through the door?
Did he say "Hi," so you could understand? I mean, was he fluent in the American language? Did he come bearing gifts? It's always good to see those types. Did he represent a social coup? In other words, did he have credentials to hi-faluting life? Done things? Been places? No?
Well if he didn't have any of these human attributes then as a dog was he pedigreed? They're worth money you know. Oh, you say you gave $2 for him at the dog pound. Well, was he pretty to look at, then? "No, kind of rangy," you say, "and wobble-kneed and pinch nosed." Well then we he strong or fearless? Could do some work, help protect the place? What's that? " How strong and fearless can a pup be at ten weeks?" I see your point.
Then let's face it. That dog came into your home absolutely worthless--and a total foreigner. I ask you. How many of those have you taken in lately?
And then when this improbable guest got through the door, what did he do? I see. He puddled on the carpet, gnawed shoestrings, dripped milk.
So you threw him out, right?
Nope, wrong.
Why was this?
Well, when that dog came through the door he had three things going for him: a wagging tail; a rough, wet tongue; and an eagerness to say hello to everyone he met.
It was like just meeting you made his day. He quivered with excitement. Rolled over in submission. Nuzzled up so's the warmth of his body came soothing to my heart through the skin of my ankle. So I picked him up. That's the way with love. It's contagious.
And I stood there holding this pup close to my cheek, smelling that last-night's-ice-cream-carton-smell of him, my fingers sunken into his soft belly, woven through his silken fur, when across my face goes that rough, wet tongue.
What I had in my hands was absolute, non-diluted, ever growing, non-demanding, can't-live-without-you, take-me-where-ever-you-go, hurry-back-if-you've-got-to-leave love.
And I ask you: Whom do you have in mind--like this--to leave your money to?