365 Ways With Words

The Barker

Above the noisy cicadas and comfy crickets, a lone rasping voice punctuated the stillness of the hot night. Every now and then it spouted unusual words.

“Step inside! Step inside!”

Above the tent’s curving lines sailed two flags, each upon the large uprights from which the canvas was suspended. Upwardly illuminated from the glowing lights inside the ring where the action would later take place, these flags had on them the words ‘Circus’ and ‘Vita’, something that could only be observed when a lazy wind took them one way or another.

“This way, ladies and gentlemen, the show is about to begin.”

From villages and farms all around, the people drove, cycled and even walked to this show—the only one some had ever seen. The carnival had only yesterday passed through the biggest town in the region, an event of great wonder in itself. This had guaranteed the interest of all but the most intransigent of religious belligerents, of which it must be said there was a sizeable minority. Their response was a dour all-night prayer meeting followed by a daily vigil outside the town hall at noon to demonstrate in no uncertain terms that the good Lord wouldn’t countenance such evil.

“What’s your pleasure? What’s your delight?”

It was, for many, a first time of seeing an elephant beyond the pages of a children’s textbook. No one could ever remember bears and fearsome lions on Main Street. Such exotica confirmed in the hearts of many that the town was rapidly growing and becoming a source of increased revenue for locals and an attractor for visitors such as these. The outside world, with all its influences, was walking through the heart of the town. For most, the slow trickle of hard-working immigrants from back East were welcomed fairly, but strangers such as these carnies and circus types, as alien as the animals themselves, were watched with guarded eyes.

“See the spectacles! Take in the treats! All for your very own performance, ladies and gentlemen.”

The carnival procession that Friday took place after the big top had been set up and the nearby wagons and cages formed into a defensive tabor formation. The uniformed brass band played marches and waltzes as the lengthy parade twirled, sparkled and waved at the dazzled and dozy citizens wholly unused to such visions of razzle-dazzle. Leading them all, and holding tightly the hand of the trapeze artist’s young girl, herself bedecked in spangles and waving the stars and stripes, was the Barker, owner of the circus and commander of his troop and all that went on from day to day.

“Be amazed at the audacity of the magnificent Periculum family as they defy death swinging on the high trapeze. Be stunned at the strength of Robustus, the strongest man alive!”

From outside, the circus seemed to epitomize the very weirdness of human life that existed elsewhere: dwarf acrobats and giant strongmen, stupid clowns and mysterious magicians, beautiful girls baring their stockinged legs on horseback, and terrifying wild animals tamed by man. And it worked, for ticket numbers for each show for the following week were near capacity, the lamplit rows filled with the good and the bad, the quick and the slow, the young and the old.

“And now… for your pleasure and entertainment… the Sollievo Brothers!”

From behind the long red curtains emerged a little car driven at ridiculous speed and from which protruded feet, gloved hands, an outlandish head and loud shiny costumes. It came to a noisy stop and each clown tumbled from a window at once ready to perform. Their first routine encouraged warmth from the audience through the usual tumbling slapstick and interaction. At the peak of an approving roar of laughter, the curtain opened once again to reveal a cycling bear dressed in a little clown costume of his own and making his way towards them. Showing exaggerated panic, each clown leaped into the air, gathered their discarded props and made a run for it through the audience. The bear circled the ring, lightly sniffing the air, but after two circuits followed the clowns’ car being towed backstage.

“Circus Vita is the best circus in the world!”

The progression of acts –dangerous animals, fire-eaters and crack-shots, stylish acrobats and trapeze artists, clowns, perilous skilled horsemen and women– had their moment within the ring; that warmly-illuminated central arena. The country audience, enthusiastic and amazed, smiled, cheered, clapped, and held their breathing at appropriate moments. From the side, the Barker, the mature announcer who knew the show moment by moment, made keen eye movements on all activities. The routines had been endlessly practiced, the animals cautiously trained, the audience watched for undesirables and attention-seekers that might disturb the show. Once in every ten minutes or so, he would bend over to whisper something to one of the stagehands wearing black that were partially hidden behind the curtain. They would run around the back of the band and leave the show in order to carry a message or perform some task.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honour to introduce the entire cast. Give them all a big hand!”

The band struck up a triumphal march as each act returned in a procession around the ring; by now every man in the audience had his favourite and every woman eyed her attractor. The children’s tired late-evening attentions were engaged with a tiger cub carried by a beautiful girl who let some of the front row hands stroke the poor animal’s back and tail.

“That’s the end of the show, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve been magnificent! Be sure to visit Circus Vita next time we pass this way!”

For days children would return to the field within which the circus had camped, tracing out the perimeter of the big top by the large tent peg holes, the circular patch of sawdust of the ring, and the indentations left by the lions’ and bear’s cages. Even the massive dried elephant dung was kicked over with delight. Eventually, even these pleasures were to fade, and other regular attractions were discovered in the usual environment, but the remnant of the circus was the spectacle that fed the imagination. That humans could do this, instead of farming, instead of going to work in the city, proved that life could be exciting. Some children wanted to be the horsemen, swift and daring, others the lion tamers and clowns and even those that risked life daily on the trapeze, but all agreed that to be the Barker, the owner and director of the whole show would be the grandest job of all.

How a Dog Dies

                                                Crinch-crunch on the gravelly sand

                                                Domestic houndpads meet stickle shell edge

                                                And skip through salt-sting pain

                                                Consumed by the runjoy

 

                                                            Commend my care in your next abode

 

                                                Tide withdrawn 

                                                Sea slowslopes a sag of sloughed pool

                                                Wormcast and crabbyleg playless scurry down

                                                Behind are the stars and tight clams

 

                                                            I did what I could from your rescue day

 

                                                Sniff to eat without taste of humancook

                                                Pick up to play is the order of the day

                                                Gallop to the chase a-vying one and all

                                                Fish head, fish eye, fish every bit

 

                                                            How could we know your every move?

 

                                                In the toxins of the fugu

                                                In the alarm brought by dizziness

                                                In the approach of stillness

                                                In the agony of suffocation

                                                        Remember, life is sweet and short, dear doggy — farewell!

Running Tigers

They accompany the runner and the casual walker, the slow cows, the excited dogs and their quarry the hurrying monkeys. Like attentive lackeys preparing the way, these marvels skip ahead of each step on the path, ready to accept the accidental prey kicked up by the dust.

Their life is measured in weeks. They live without worry, eager only in determined hunt – itself a precondition of species success. And they must meet and mate. The mysteries of day and night, of victory and failure, of anguish over longevity and pride of progeny, of appropriate reactions to culture and fashion and a pressing need for social integration are not theirs. For they are free.

They have their markings; their carapace is an identity wherein they are able to elude predation and find each other. They make good the time that is theirs. Or not: the margin between thriving and death may be slim and ever close.

Tiger beetles shimmer in the light. Their magnificent spots and iridescence capture the eye and the mind. So unlike humans, the life they have they must have. The life we have, we must choose.

Get The Boat Back

                                                It is still hot above; we tire one and all

                                                The fat noodles slosh in icy beer

                                                Weary knees welcome clinging sea wetness

                                                For the return through surge waves a-chop

                                                Over the rising waah of wavecrash

                                                The engine’s rolling reverses stop

                                                Let rope boy hold ashore in his shorts and sunnies

 

                                                Lift the swimming dogs, legs paddle air – leads on

                                                A last billow cools the pants (and whatever’s within)

                                                Hold bags and shoes and phones aloft!

                                                One last look back upon the playing beach’s ebb

                                                Soft sand clings spangly to ankle skin

 

                                                The cost, of course, is too much

                                                But smiles erupt as lazy miles are consumed

                                                By deafening outboard, by bum-bouncing spray

                                                Too fast by the sombre fishing men engaged

                                                Marooned on crops of shadeless rocks

                                                Around the splayed deep green barren headland

 

                                                Beside the frozen tumbling boulders

                                                Fish jump in sea clear below

                                                Under this towering massive, this commanding silence

                                                Into the open harbour neck

 

                                                Features reverse from footsore eyesight

                                                Sight of home spirit spurs on the slided surface

                                                Bullet past the hour-walk mark

                                                Bus and taxi wait happy by this yellow rock

                                                Voices natter in on wafts of sweet barbecue smoke

                                                An honest sleep beckons up the wet moored steps:

                                                When journey drops the bags and keys

                                                When last footfalls stop behind the closed front door

                                                When toes and heels are sand-free showered

                                                When the lightless night is cicada sung

Cats and Snakes

You cannot keep a cat inside. At least, not for long. Natural Houdinis, they take themselves off by any means necessary – stealth, cunning and daring are in their very nature. As is, of course, their propensity to seek out dark and enclosed spaces to do… cattish things! And cattish things are generally focused on hunting. Naturally inquisitive creatures, they seek out the flying, the scurrying and the elusive. Preternaturally without conscience, and minimal empathy for that matter, these feline hunters play with suffering animals with the joy of a sadistic torturer. The only problem for us softy humans that become attached to them is that they can also be predated upon.

The cats that resided at the addresses in Ko Tong Ha Yeung that we called home were inclined to see open doors as natural gateways, windows as mere egression points, and guttering and air conditioning shelves as stepping-stones to freedom. At times of great famine (i.e. when they had gone off their normal kitty dinner) they would bring back a specimen for consumption. This unfortunate bat, bird, rat, mouse, frog, cockroach, etc, would then be delightfully toyed with, chased, caught again, partially-eaten, left, regurgitated and then loathsomely abandoned in a sticky mess on the carpet.

There were no exceptions to this treatment: despite the introduction of toys, scratch posts, treats and catnip, it appears cats cannot shed their nature. Unfortunately, sometimes these furry domestic beasts would go too far. Thus it was that Stubby was the first to make his way off into the world without any guiding hands.

Stubby arrived home in a box one evening after Brenda had been out at the pub. Taking her leave, she stumbled upon a bunch of kids cruelly abusing the baby kitty in the street. Scattering them with a holler, she took the frightened and emaciated stray home. The Ginger Tom had to learn to walk again, even with a twisted stumpy tail (hence Stubby). A homemade sugary milk mixture seemed to do the trick, but although he grew he retained a rather homeless nature. He bit toes at night, attacked without provocation and sought out the ceiling space in the kitchen to look for anything living (unsuccessfully). On moving to the Sai Kung Country Park, he hung around for about a year before taking himself off proper hunting. That no sight was made of him ever again means that he may have taken on something snakey in one of the covered culverts and did not –or could not– move fast enough.

Dooley came to us because his rather well to do owner was moving to South Africa and requested a re-home. I obliged, partly because I foolishly thought Stubby could do with a companion. Unfortunately, Stubby thought otherwise and for two weeks terrorised the poor Dooley into a cupboard drawer. When the fur settled and an uneasy peace reigned, they still remained distant, one leaving the room as the other entered. Dooley’s subdued nature meant that he sought (female) human comforts over and above any catlike companionship.

Minsey, or Mini-Kitty, was a lost cause, at least as far as the veterinary assistants thought in Sai Kung. They kept the wild-eyed stripey Siberian tiger cub locked firmly in a cage, and used gauntlets each time they approached. I put my fingers through the bar and received a kitten’s lick and purr. Thus, she was brought home and became the golden eye’d exotic that got into mischief as she charmingly gambolled on her lanky hind legs. A sociable kitty, particularly with the dogs, she twisted her body into unfeasible shapes and loved watching the birds through the windows. Fierce beyond her size, she thought nothing of facing up to a cobra. She also went the way of Stubby, although I thought I saw a glimpse of her rushing into undergrowth at Tai Tan one day about a year after her disappearance.

Jack, the last adoption, came through a rather cautious adoption agency that suggested he spend two months in a cage before being released. Thinking this unfair treatment for a beautiful black cat, he was released and made his friends with the residents of the house. Unfortunately, the canine residents of the house were not always so accepting and one day he was chased up the perimeter fence and must have slipped his leg through a cat leg-sized aperture that caught him: he limped back with a broken femur. Our vet at the time, Tom, magnificently corrected the break with what looked like a headless six-inch nail inserted down the bone’s length. He recovered and enjoyed a few years of luxury before also taking himself off; perhaps to look for the other two lost causes. It is likely he did not look for what took him.

 

So, today only one of the four cats remains—the stay-at-home Dooley. A very vocal boy, he would sometimes take himself outside, only to lose one-sided battles with local swaggering hooligans. Becoming suddenly transfixed with agoraphobic terror, he would frequently have to be rescued from a nearby tree with a fearful accompaniment of meowing and scratching. It is with some relief it can be said he never acquired snake-hunting skills. He now sits most hours on my desk in his 15 years dotage waiting to be fed lovely foods (none of which fly, hiss or scurry). He is smelly, has lost a canine and has an annoying habit of sitting before the screen between my arms so that I can see neither keyboard nor screen properly. Ah well—you can’t choose who you fall in love with.

Breath of Easterly Wind

 

                                                    Starlight dimly leads upon a perilous path

                                                    Long before, the silent cows hear noisy footfalls approach

                                                    So softly around I ginger, their calm presence is felt

                                                    A warm sweetness rings their rest

                                                    Homely, but a pressing hour approaches

 

                                                    Skystretch thin and mute

                                                    In gradients grow particulates on the earthturn schedule

                                                    Too late, these sleepless clumsy feet scrabble up scree

                                                    The full light has come

                                                    It glareburns upon the shimmering waves

                                                    Along the eastern coast far from eyes but mine

                                                    No fishing boat or trawler's wake

                                                    Empty of bulk and tankers beyond

                                                    This July hour is partnerless

                                                    Solely me, the dogs, the swifts and dragonflies, the sun

                                                    All clouds are coy this morning

                                                    Not a breath of easterly wind

                                                    This is the moment

 

                                                    Last drops in hand, all water drained

                                                    The canine pair know where to go

                                                    Down, along a perilous ridge to trees

                                                    Too quick they are, and rightly so

                                                    I find them basted in the stream

                                                    Beside a bull under spider canyon

 

                                                    Long are the music waves on a pristine beach deserted

                                                    Dryads and Oceanids cavort and win me

                                                    Into cleansing tumbles my nakedness is won

                                                    And for a time there is a single entity

                                                    The crystalline peace

                                                    A totality in union

                                                    Before breakfast at the café

The Scattered Ashes

So it was late when we arrived home. So the dogs needed a walk. So we took them out for a quick wee. So we didn’t bring the leads. So we didn’t –we couldn’t– foresee what would happen.

The reason for moving to a house in the country park was simple: we adopted a dog. Ordinarily this sort of commonplace thing means an adjustment of some sort, perhaps in daily habit, but this dog was different. He came as a pair.

To make this clear, I must explain that before the move to Hong Kong, we kept a beautiful (and rescued) Irish Wolfhound whose head was above my own when standing on his hind legs. He was a bounder—a real sight hound who enjoyed tearing off to the opposite side of a field because a hare had lazily lolloped beside a hedge. I can recommend no gentler nor more family-friendly a dog than a Wolfhound. When word came to us that an English Mastiff in the Sai Kung Country Park was similarly in need of rescuing and of proper care and attention, my interest was piqued. How many other people in Hong Kong had the experience necessary for large dog care?

I drove over to meet the Campbells, a missionary couple who were about to leave Ko Tong Ha Yeung to carry out work in Cambodia. They had seen 'Buster' hiding in the surrounding forest; this emaciated ghost-like apparition hid from all human contact. He had injuries, was scared witless, and would only approach the village houses in the dead of night and then only to drink from stagnant water and rummage for scraps. In the evening these kind souls left him food, each time a little closer to the house, until eventually they succeeded in trapping him into the enclosed space behind the gate where he immediately succumbed to their kindness. I was moved by their compassionate story, patting as I did so the other dog of the house, Batty. She was a very bright lanky and hairy ginger thing who, I was to find out, was to be taken along with Buster. The Campbells incidentally enquired if I liked any of the furniture they were thinking of leaving. And what about the house? Before the afternoon was out, I had acquired a mastiff, his ginger matey, some second-hand furniture and a new house way out in the wilds of Hong Kong!

Buster and Batty were good for each other: she was bright and intelligent and a more sociable dog I have never known, whereas he was scared of sticks, umbrellas and newspapers, thunder, Chinese people and sudden noises—in fact, he was an emotional wreck. It must be assumed that he had been severely mistreated. On top of that, he had severe heartworm, suffered poor blood condition and required fattening up. Our new life in the country park unfolded into a wonderful experience and with six months of care and trust things had also become much better for him – just in time for another addition to the family.

Brenda had been angered by seeing another smaller female English Mastiff that had been kept in a cramped pet shop window cage for some months. It was about time this poor animal was released. With the assistance of a good local vet and neighbour who promised all sorts of animal welfare trouble should the irresponsible pet shop owners not quickly sell the animal on the cheap, Bella was brought home. A soppy pup, she quickly grew into Buster's tan-coloured female companion, enjoying the same love of open water and stinking dead fish and was eager for soft affection. For a little more than one year the three dogs were happy together. And then two more turned up.

The domestic helpers in the village had been feeding two pups located beneath the roadbridge. Their swollen little bellies were suffering from too much kindness. And so whether they wanted it or not, the black and white pair were rescued, de-flea'd and formally introduced to Buster, Batty and Bella. We had difficulty naming them, but for some reason the names Squiddly and Diddly stuck. The two pups were semi-feral and required a little seasoning and training. But now we were 5. And all, except for Batty and Buster, were inexperienced youngsters.

Perhaps I should also mention at this point that at this time we had in addition acquired 4 cats!

The combination of animals in the family home certainly made for a lively time. The dogs suited long walks by the rivers and beneath the trees of the park, but their sociability together also formed them into a pack. Being naturally chauvinistic, they handled better under dominant hands, but whoever held the five leads had to content with other pets and pet owners. They had already met, and scrapped, with another well-meaning couple's five dogs that lived in the next village. Thus, the bad blood had been drawn: historical antipathy for canines is never far from the surface—without socialising, they just don't forgive each other.

So the night came at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, when these two packs found and fought each other. Amid the cacophony of barks and yells, I held onto big Buster as Brenda sought to intervene. Unfortunately, the other pet owners also put their hands in and were severely bitten by Bella intent on wiping out the opposition to her cherished new pack. Once fur had flown and blood had been spilt, I ran to meet them and apologised. It seemed there was little pleasantry to be said, and I felt there was only one course open to me: Bella had to go.

To keep a large dog is a responsibility. To keep a large dog that has drawn human blood is to invite condemnation as an irresponsible dog owner—quite apart from my own issue of trust. Why wouldn't she do it again? It was her job to protect the pack.

With a heart heavier than lead, I drove with her the next morning to the vets in Sai Kung and held her in the treatment room as the injection was administered. At the very last moment, she looked quizzically into my face: what was I doing? Was this a punishment? She was only doing her job...

I had to have a brandy to steady myself. I had taken away her life, the one that had been rescued, and for what? Things are simple in the mind of a dog, and her actions, although condemned by humankind, were natural and normal for her own. The next day, Christmas Eve, I took all the dogs for a long walk to the end of the Wan Tsai peninsula and sat alone taking in the view and weighing my actions of that night. If only we had brought the leads. If only we had left 5 minutes later instead of rushing out. And I sat to weep copious tears; for her, for having been irresponsible, for my betrayal, and for my stupid sense of duty.

New Year's Day the following year, Bella's ashes were scattered at her favourite place on the Wong Ma Tei hilltop above Wong Shek pier. And I love her still.

The Mountain on Your Right

                                      

                                                    Around the sandflat bay, tide out

                                                    Raised beds a-crackle and pop in the new sun's weight

                                                    Fiddling crabs make sandball radiances

                                                    And sign, claws up, claws down—up down

                                                    Such summery pastimes

 

                                                    Crabs fill their bubbly mouths, fiddly twitter

                                                    Darting black fishies jump their panic

                                                    Over hot wavelets

                                                    Coursing by the mudskipper’s tail-lugged gape

                                                    In blithe trampers trampfoot print

 

                                                    The moon’s mass drag, look way down

                                                    Corals do appear, rock blue and life green

                                                    The jeweler’s shop unlocked

                                                    Sea skaters nip before a shadow

                                                    The long path beckons resumption

 

                                                    And there it is, eternally there,

                                                    Monolith

                                                    Seat of all woes, a navel vision dragged ever

                                                    Feet may fall on boulder paths or forest edge;

                                                    Conceal-less, peer-less, it dominates regard-less

 

                                                    Beached sat in attention consummation

                                                    The mountain on your right

                                                    Is forever within, the dark hold deep solid

                                                    Crabwork and fishleap are not to sway

                                                    Nor the pretty things nor ministrations of exercise

 

                                                    It must be left…

 

 

                                                    Climbing on the turn

                                                    The path will make

                                                    The back—to face its cognition

                                                    The path will take

                                                    The footsore on—into wild glades free

                                                    The path will wake

                                                    New sites—new bravery

                                                    The mountain is still there

                                                    But

                                                    Is no longer in sight

To The Fire Lookout

In order to appreciate the view, one must climb. This necessity sometimes eludes those who seem unable to grasp the basics: that enlightenment can only be achieved when one step is placed above another.

There is a sweet spot to be found in the middle of the shallow bay at the end of Ko Tong Hau (Long Harbour). It receives the chilled waters that pass through the forest-reclaimed farmland in the valleys of Ko Tong and Ko Tong Ha Yeung, and the river that sometimes violently cascades between rocks down to Tai Tan. The mudflats of this bay are so enriched with regular deposits of silt and vegetatable detritus, that abundant wildlife will feed upon it – from stinking methane-producing bacteria to crabs, molluscs and fish. As such, the sand beyond is liberally inhabited with sharp-shelled filter-feeding oysters, and footwear is essential. The sand shelf drops away at about one hundred metres allowing for the welcoming embrace of cooler deep waters and at high tide an undisturbed lazy float midpoint between the forested shores. It is here at this point, this sweet spot, that the fire look-out atop Lo Fu Kei Shek can be best appreciated. And from sea level it appears small and easy – paltry, even.

But what the eye cannot see from salt waters is the view, what can barely be imagined are the gentle coastal breezes, what cannot be experienced is the peace.

To ascend takes three forms: using the tarmacked Hoi Ha Road, up the river valley that winds beside the Tai Tan river and the long way through the bamboo and underbrush to the sand ridge resplendent with trees. Each has its character and proper feel, the first being for marchers, the second for observers and the third for those who seek encounters.

The Hoi Ha Road is characterised by a slow ascent between overhanging trees. Being in the gated country park, there is minimal vehicular traffic apart from the regular green minibus and the thundering convoys of coaches that take tourists to Hoi Ha to dip their toes in the warm waters. It is a good running road with many little detours available to extend regular exercise into something better.

The Tai Tan river track is stepped and rocky, sometimes awkwardly so, but twists and turns beautifully past steep ravines, beside the old walls of abandoned rice fields and beneath a majestic outcrop of red pines. From time to time wild boar rush across the path, and docile feral cows munch their way along its length. The track meets the road between the bridge and the helipad.

The long way up past the graves and through the bamboo is somewhat challenging, but the isolation is paramount, especially at the top point where the trees offer shade and an excuse to sit and watch the boats arrive and leave Wong Shek Pier below. It is then a case of following the nose until the path returns to Hoi Ha Road opposite the next stage of the journey.

However the route thus far, the next step will be a little more physically demanding. The signpost for the fire lookout indicates a zigzag path that rises rapidly onto Lo Fu Kei Shek hillside. By the time all the puffing and panting is over, and just as the hill seems not so paltry, this section will have levelled out. It then branches to the right and leads directly to the lookout above.

The lookout serves to warn of imminent fire threat in the dry winter season when it is often manned: surely a lonesome occupation. But it is precisely this seclusion that the many lonely walkers seek. On the shelf that is the viewing platform, the viewer can see far on all sides; directly beneath is the traditional village of Pak Sha O, the threatened jewel, on the opposite side is the road back to Sai Kung and civilization and the nestled villages along its length. The mountains of Ngau Ye Shek Shan, Mount Hallowes and Sharp Peak surround; further afield is Hoi Ha harbour and beyond are the shining sunset waters of Plover Clove reservoir in Tai Po. On a good day far one can see far into the smoky hills of Guangdong and coastal China.

Ceylon Blue Glassy Tiger butterflies abound all year bar winter, black kites superbly circle high above and on those terrible humid days emperor dragonflies display and hunt in the air around. In spring purple cat-tail bean flowers spike their beautiful displays in the long grass and forever on the wind is the scent of resins, spores, pollens and white camellia flowers that abound since the ancient time tea was tended upon the slopes.

The effort of taking those steps to the silent top are always rewarded. Each time aloft the rest of the world is suspended, the spirit is unguarded and the dreaded inner chatter of daily cares and concerns stills to a whisper. But there is, of course, no water to be found here. So every visit must marry the supplies brought along. It is always with heart-felt longing that departure is made. Then the only question is which path to use to return home.

Buster

                                        Noble guardian of the besieged keep

                                            (Cringing coward at the first umbrella sighting)

                                        Advanced guard into the boar-filled underbrush

                                            (Earliest to flee at danger’s approach)

                                        Big Man of the Mountain – all on his path quake at his approach

                                            (Watch him instantly shy into the forest)

                                        Few deep barks mean hidden powers well kept

                                            (Transformer into a first thunderclap quivering quaker)

                                        The shadowed outlaw returned, restituted in human kindness

                                            (Insecure chicken dumping loyalty at the first stinking beached fish)

                                        Poor patient of heartworm and wounded flank soldiering on

                                            (Wincer at the briefest of nailtrim)

                                        My brave boy, my old friend, my pride and joy

                                            (My old stinking, maddeningly annoying and now sadly departed beauty)

 

                                        I so miss you. Always will.