As The Rooster Crows

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Woof Woof

June 17, 2023 8:29 am / 14 Comments on Woof Woof

I’m going to share something from “The Paris Review,” it’s one of my yearly expenses and I’m reading of the works of many people past and present. What is the “Paris Review” you ask.

The Paris Review, American literary quarterly founded in 1953 by Peter Matthiessen, Harold L. Humes, and George Plimpton, with Plimpton also serving as the first editor. It is an English-language review modeled on the independent literary magazines (also known as “ little magazines ”) published in Paris in the 1920s.

After reading this poem in the most recent review, I could not but look at my own pets down through the years, especially dogs.

My dogs started with a Mutt named Lady, I can not remember when she crossed the Rainbow Bridge. However I do know the loss of a pet can be an emotionally devastating experience. I do know Lady was my pal early in life back in the 40’s. Somewhere around the age of 9 or 10 we adopted Scarlet & Amber, Dalmations from the same litter. They were inseparable and lasted at most, and I’m guessing, a month? They had to be returned as they were not good house pets I was told.

Next was Co Co, full name CoCO Mimi Celest by Hecht. I turned that girl into a hunting a dog, ten yards out, back and forth, Quail, Grouse, Pheasant or whatever, kick it to the air she would. She loved the hedgerows of Burlington County, NJ back in the late 50’s and early 60’s. Most of those hedge rows and birds no longer exist. The only downfall of this girl was, she hated getting her feet wet. Whenever we came to a stream, I’d cross, lay the Shotgun down and return for CoCo’s ride across the water.

In 1969 or 70 I brought home from work a medium sized scruffy wire haired dog named Ping. The name, she used to lay beneath the Ping Pong table at the firehouse I worked at. An old LaFrance (1947) 100 ft aerial ladder truck co. in Hartford, CT is what I rode. Back in the day I like to say.

The Mrs. wasn’t too keen on this pathetic looking creature and I remember her saying, “If he so much as nips once, any of the children, out he goes. The kids, a new born, one, 1 yo and another age 3. Never a nip, had that wonderful pet for a good ten years. Called her Ping the Wonder Dog back in the day.

A Yellow Lab with the name of Saucy would also join us those years in Connecticut. Once the fruit of the vine appeared, we continuously found Cucumbers on our lawn from neighbors gardens, the Lords bounty.

After my retirement from the CT State Police we moved to the Eastern Shore of Maryland, a sort of compromise between Maine, the Mrs. choice, and Florida, my choice. We wound up getting a Black Lab – Mix, and what we suspect was the father, a Collie named Chief. That Mutts name was Troop.

We would have a Marsh and a Duke along the way. Next to last we had a Maggi, a Standard Poodle and presently, another Standard Poodle, Benjamin.

Many of the atributes mentioned in the poem I am about to share existed in one or all of our past canines.

Without further ado, I share with you.

Erica Jong

Jubilate Canis

(With apologies to Christopher Smart)

For I will consider my dog Poochkin
(& his long-lost brothers, Chekarf & Dogstoyevsky).
For he is the reincarnation of a great canine poet.
For he barks in meter, & when I leave him alone
his yelps at the door are epic.
For he is white, furry, & resembles a bathmat.
For he sleeps at my feet as I write
& therefore is my greatest critic.
For he follows me into the bathroom
& faithfully pees on paper.
For he is almost housebroken.
For he eats the dog food I give him
but also loves Jarlsberg swiss cheese.
For he disdains nothing that smells—
whether feet or roses.
For to him, all smells are created equal by God—
both turds and perfumes.
For he loves toilet bowls no less than soup bowls.
For by watching, I have understood democracy.
For by watching him, I have understood democracy.
For he turns his belly toward God
& raises his paws & penis in supplication.
For he hangs his pink tongue out of his mouth
like a festival banner for God.
For though he is male, he has pink nipples on his belly
like the female.
For though he is canine, he is more humane
than most humans.
For when he dreams he mutters in his sleep
like any poet.
For when he wakes he yawns & stretches
& stands on his hind legs to greet me.
For, after he shits, he romps and frolics
with supreme abandon.
For after he eats, he is more contented
than any human.
For in every room he will find the coolest corner,
& having found it, he has the sense to stay there.
From issue no. 71 (Fall 1977)

Don’t forget to check on the elderly. theRooster

By George, He’s got it!

March 26, 2020 5:25 am / 4 Comments on By George, He’s got it!

I share with you an enlightening poem from across the dis-functioning Bay Bridge, which connects the Western Shore with the Eastern Shore of Maryland. I was not going to call you at 0400 hrs George to let you know I was doing this George. Sleep well my friend.

I would guess George has been a friend for close to twenty years. Geeze, that was back in the days when we had a president that said ” “Brownie, you’re doing a heckuva job.” Where does the time go?

Now in this day and age we have the CDC Says “Do Not Go to Work, “President Trump Says, “Thousands With Coronavirus Could Go to Work and Get Better.” Fill those pews on Easter Sunday. A Greek Tragedy?

Often after he posts something on one of his many venues, George sends me scurrying to find out just what in the hell he is referencing. Most often I’m successful, but on occasion I’m left scratching my head. Enjoy the poem.

The best short social isolation poem so far is by Grandpa Brody

poor georgie’s almanack Uncategorized March 25, 2020 1 Minute

It was his response to a recent “poor georgie’s almanack” posting.

FREEDOM AND CAGES

I looked out my window and saw a great sight, A bird and a squirrel were having a fight. Seeds on the ground were causing their rage, They were free, unlike me, pent up in a cage. Coronavirus dumped on us, a rampant deluge, We’re saved for the time in our homely refuge, The squirrel has bolted, the bird struts around, My heart’s with the seeds all over the ground, It’s so strange inside, I can hear graying hair, Sounds of the crowds, and look, no one’s there, We are stuck in the house for a foe that is viral, All normal relations are in a downward spiral. The long golden silence is but tarnished words, I long for outside, breathing free like the birds, My life of the past and its warmth do I seek, I’ve endured this affliction for all of one week. Squirrel has returned eating seeds that are left, Looking out of my window to the world, bereft Of my freedom to move anywhere that I please, To enjoy the squirrels and birds in the trees. Next week may be better, a brisk sunny walk, Or perhaps my dear wife and I will just talk, About the day when this plague’s in the past, But for now, how long will this dilemma last?

Published by poor georgie’s almanack

Retired. Writing essays about local and world events that affected the decisions made by our ancestors that resonate with our lives today. We are who they were. Also writing my take on what Ben Franklin’s Poor Richard’s Almanack might be like in a modern world that now has electrcity. I was head of PR for The Washington Post during Pentagon Papers and Watergate, special assistant to the Postmaster General, senior staffer on the US Senate Foreign Relations Committee, a show business press agent, Chicago chamber of commerce press relations manager and consultant to US and international governmental and nongovernmental agencies and corporations. Examples of my work are in the Smithsonian and Newseum collections. poor georgie’s almanack (since 2011) can be found at http://georgekroloff.blogspot.com You can Google it or follow me on Facebook or Twitter. View all posts by poor georgie’s almanack Published March 25, 2020