Why Is a Cat Not Like a Dog? ~ a poem from a dog’s perspective from the poetry book for animal and nature lovers ‘As Good as Gold‘.
“A cat has a heart-shaped nose above a mouth with piercing teeth, A cat has paws with soft, pink cushions hiding sharp claws beneath, A cat has pointy whiskers, to catch running drops of milk And a tail to play with, a tail that flicks, made of silk.
Why is a cat Like that?
A cat is playful, yet she loves to sleep. A cat drinks milk, but prefers raw meat. A cat will meow and shriek and spit when she’s upset with you, Yet curl and purr so softly, it will lure you into a snooze.
Why does a cat Act like that?
A cat will jump around like she has springs instead of feet, A cat will roam at night, her eyes turn “torches” in a beat. A cat will choose her home and master, it hardly chooses her And if she feels like doing so, you name it, and she’ll do it with a purr.
Why does a cat Act like that?
A cat will watch from high above, and jump upon her prey, She’ll hardly learn a trick or two, yet pantry’s door is play. She’ll never fetch or chew a shoe, She’d rather use her claws To let you know she’s made her mind, A cat will hardly joke.
I guess a cat is just a cat as I’m a dog myself. A cat can’t bark, she’ll spit; She can’t protect a home, like me, she’ll use her claws instead. A cat will lure you off to sleep by purring low and soft, Her body’s reassuring, warm, as I dose off at noon. I guess a cat’s a cat and could be good around the room.
I guess a cat is just like that, She’s different and that Is okay With me.”
The boy broke his run at the entrance to the park and, panting heavily he leaned forward, hands on nobly knees. A trickle of sweat ran down his ripe cheeks; another drop just missed its show, landing in the dirt. The boy watched as his breath stirred the sand at his feet; for an instant, it rolled into tiny balls.
A dog radiating as much heat as the boy, tongue hanging loose, was already there, panting underneath the thick shade on the first tree. The boy’s cheeks were a match for the dog’s exhaustion, hot and red. If one’s shirt was darkened along the middle, at the back, and had dark patches underarms, the other one’s body felt like a well stocked furnace.
“You win again, boy!” the child half croaked, half laughed, stretching to caress his best friend’s head. The fur behind the ears was still soft, like a pups’.
At the water fountain nearby the boy pressed the chrome lever then stepped sideways, allowing his dog to drink first. A red tongue lapped greedily until the dog’s entire head looked like a Christmas tree, a perfect tiny water bauble balancing at the end of each hair. The boy laughed, his lips almost pasted together by the thickness of his saliva. So thirsty! Only when the dog stopped did the boy bent over the cooling spring, yet his eyes remained on the giant fur-ball.
Sparkling and sweet, the water felt like a balm sliding down his burning throat. New life pumped through his body and the boy half closed his eyes, sighing with satisfaction.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw his dog using a front paw, then the other, wiping the water droplets off his fur. In his eagerness he seemed to be dancing. The boy burst in laughter and water splashed all over face and his hair. He laughed further as he drank. And the dog sneezed then surrendered to the shade.
A playful breeze was fanning the leaves overhead. Their rustle had accompanied the two since they woke up that morning. Life was a holiday song. The summer seemed to be stretching endlessly, filled with possibilities. They could do anything they wanted, go any place they wished, and at any time – as long as Mother knew and they returned by supper. After all, it was the first day of summer holiday.
In the shade of the big tree there was a boy, a ball, and, of course, a dog. Quite enough to fill an entire summer with excitement.
The dog’s tail wagged and the boy laughed. Or the boy laughed first, the two were interconnected.
The dog’s eyes followed the boy’s, reading his mind. This was a two way street.
The dog shot up as the boy stepped sideways; the dog’s tail wagged like a helicopter’s blade. The dog’s eyes were focused low, intent on the boy’s foot. The boy’s leg went swinging backwards, then forward, towards the ball. The ball flew off this earth and, at exactly the same time, the dog left the earth too, his body a spring stretching towards the sky.
Ball and dog chased the sun’s rays further and further away. Only one could win this race and both boy and dog knew which one will that be. The boy squinted as a ray of sun forced its way between the thick foliage above.
The tires screeched like a teacher’s chalk on the blackboard, leaving a question in the air – one you did not study for. The noise was out of place in this holiday with a ball, a boy, and a dog. The boy opened his mouth to call, yet he could not remember what words to use so he chocked on air. His legs were moving like they had a mind on their own, sprinting towards the road. All the boy wished for was to have wings to reach it faster.
There was no movement, just a light shadow against the black tar. And the contrast didn’t made sense, light on dark.
The scorching tar smelled of petroleum with a hinge of burned tires.
The dog, his dog, his best friend, lay under the scorching heat. There is shade under the tree, went through the boy’s mind as he circled the area.
First thing he notices were his friend’s eyes, closed. But the chest was moving! Lifting and dropping in sudden jerks. Yet the tail didn’t move when the boy collapsed nearby, senseless to the rough road scraping his bare knees.
No bleeding because his heart is so strong, thought the boy, his hands hovering over the fur, not daring to touch.
It was the first time ever, in eight months since the two were together, that the dog’s tail didn’t wag at the sound of his master’s footsteps. Only a triangle-shaped nose stretched towards the boy’s hand. It was dry and hot against the boy’s wet fingers. The dog licked them, his tongue raspy.
A trickle of sound reached as far as the boy’s ears.
The vet was whispering and his mother was sighing, her eyes red, yet the boy felt no fear of the big words being used: paralytic, quality of life, euthanasia. He knew what he had to do next. He had damaged his dog and somehow he was going to fix him.
All that mattered right now was that his dog was alive. The rest, he’ll figure out, make a plan, like his dad always did. The man with a plan. as his friends called him and always relied on him.
Yes, he’ll make a plan. His dog relied on him.
It’s been an accident, his mother had said. Yet she wouldn’t stop crying, trying to explain to him why his dog, his best friend, had to be put to sleep. Whatever being put to sleep meant.
And why was it that grownups only could decide on behalf of a dog?
Just because his dog couldn’t use his hind legs anymore? Put to sleep? You don’t do that to humans, do you?! You buy them wheels. The mailman had one set with a seat on them and, boy was he fast, delivering newspapers quicker than before his crash. Also a car, an “accident”.
And his grandma had a set of wheels too, with a seat and a frame, for when she went shopping.
People always got things when they got injured.
So he carried his dog home that night, the boy did. He laid him gently on his bed, arranged pillows around so that he won’t roll over and fall, not that his dog could move at all, then he fell asleep in the armchair, next to the bed.
And the next day, while his parents were at work, he carried his dog
into the garage, carefully laying him down on a blanket taken from his
He’d broken his dog and now he was going to fix him.
He always thought of his dad’s garage as of Aladdin’s treasure cave. You were sure to find just what you were looking for – if you only dug deep enough.
So he dug and he thought, all the time talking to his dog, like he always used to. Asking him questions, waiting for a bark in reply, acknowledging his dog’s point of view.
At one stage he stopped and listened. He thought he’d heard his dog’s tail thumping, like it always did when… before… So he popped his head from behind a pile of boxes, the shape of a smile on his face.
Nothing. The tail was as still as it’s been since the dire incident.
Yet the dog’s head cocked to one side, question in his eyes. The boy blinked away a tear.
“So much dust here, boy, it gets in your eyes, you know.”
He knew his first bicycle was still there, somewhere. Found it underneath a pile of old bags. He carried it slowly to where his dog was laying, for a good sniff all over, especially the training wheels.
“We want these, boy! Good boy!” he exclaimed. The tail didn’t wag, but he knew his dog was excited; he could see it in the bright eyes and the tip of those fury ears pointed at the bicycle.
The training wheels, a couple of old copper pipes, some scraps of cloth to cover them with and a wide piece of leather for a comfy seat lay beside the dog. The boy’s heart thumped, pumped up with hope. He’d planned this all last night.
He’ll build his dog a set of wheels. For his hind body and legs, to support them when they will go for walks and, maybe, even runs again.
The summer was not even half way through, it’s end still far out of sight. The days were long and full of exciting, endless possibilities for a dog on wheels and his boy.
Just over the meadow, just over the hill, Where the grass is greener and the stream runs slow, There’s a spot that many walk past and few really know. Here’s where puppy likes to go and explore.
He came here today, He’s here right now. Oh, puppy, Watch out!
Just over the meadow, were the trees grow tall And the shade is thick and the grass is soft, Puppy rolls all over then he lies dead, sloshed. This is his kingdom; he’s the King, the servant and the fool…
But something’s new in the grass today… Ouch! It pricked his nose And his behind.
Just over the meadow and right down the hill A puppy yelps and licks his snout; something’s amiss! His Kingdom’s been invaded, time for attack! The growl troops are summoned while the tail’s tugged for retreat…
Puppy tiptoes, Takes a peek. Sniffs carefully…. What IS that squeak?
Just over the meadow, hidden in the green, lush grass, A creature as small as a… ball wanders about. Not quite round, with pointy nose and… needles, no doubt! “What is the use of those?” barks puppy from afar.
Two beady eyes Smile at pup. “What is the use of a tail?” The creature asks.
Just over the meadow, right down the hill, A puppy and a hedgehog sit together, two chums. And chat of this and laugh at that, mostly insects and bugs, Then they both roll around, each one on his meadow half.
For a Kingdom at war is of use to none. Better share and make friends with your strange neighbour, Enjoy together a snack, there are plenty about And share the shade, lots of it to go around.
“A super sweet and poignant book of poetry about what a pup thinks of his world. As a cat lover I especially was tickled by his relationship to the cat. Any dog lover would adore this book. The photos were appealing. Haikus at the end were tiny diamonds.” (Kathryn Meyer Griffith, long time author)
“There is something truly magical about this wonderful collection” (Susan Day, Editor and Author)
I hope you enjoyed this St. Bernard Dog Haiku. You might also like to read the poem Bailey the Sea Dog.
Enjoy more Haiku about dogs in my new book of poetry and haiku, As Good AS Gold:
“What I really liked about the book is that it is seen through the eyes of a dog but there isn’t an attempt to make every poem sentimental about it being man’s best friend.” (5*, Peter, Amazon TOP 1000 Reviewer)
“I thoroughly enjoyed As Good As Gold. The photographs of the dogs that accompany the poems are adorable, and striking. They add another depth to the words, which I thought was beautiful.” (Jessica, 5* Amazon review)
As Good As Gold is also available in e-book, paperback and Large Print, colorful pictures, a dyslexia friendly edition: get it on Amazon UK, Amazon US
I chose the name Haiku-San as it derives from Haiku, meaning unusual verse in Japanese (hai=unusual, ku=verse, strophe) and San, the honorific Japanese title when speaking about people. San is also the phonetic transcription of the first syllable of the English word Sunday, Sun-day hence Haiku-San, a Sunday feature on Alluring Creations involving Haiku I write.