Book Worm

October 8th 2015

Today I am wearing my camo-bow.

So it’s National Poetry Day is it? I suspected something when the old one dusted off a few books, opened the back door and invited me outside, alone, on my tod, for the usuals. Hang on a second. We go together, or least someone takes me. I might run off ( I won’t) , I might get dog-knapped ( I won’t) I might eat something I shouldn’t and be up all night followed by a visit to the vet ( I did  once, but I won’t again. Nasty. ) Then I saw him.

I was out in the cold, albeit sunny but parky, while he sat in his favourite chair, new glasses on, head stuck in a book. ‘OK, I’ll give him a minute or two and he’ll be out’ I thought. I rootled around near some pots of pansies and almost caught a drunken wasp in a fallen apple. Any minute and I’ll hear the whistle, the scrunching of a packet of nibbly treats and woof, we’ll be off.  But nothing.

I wandered down to the window and he was still there. This time however he was staring into space. Eyes open, book in hand, looking all faraway and wistful. Then it clicked. National Poetry Day. I heard it on the radio when the young one was scraping what looked like thinly smeared cream cheese off the insides of his football shin pads. ‘The whole day is dedicated to poetry’ I heard. What? Nothing else matters but poetry today? What about world security? What about the Rugby World Cup? Crikey – what about dog-welfare?

So I barked. Just a small one at first but he continued to stare. And again. Still the vacant, distant look. Maybe he wasn’t well. Perhaps something had happened to him and it was time for me to do the Lassie type thing and go to get help ( or lie at his feet until someone carries him away?) Either way he was inside, I was getting nippy and time was marching on towards lunch. A dog cannot survive on woozy wasps alone you know. I therefore had to do something that I haven’t done for a couple of years and to be honest, try to avoid due to a tweaked muscle in my back. I jumped at the window.

Startled and dropping his pound-shop glasses on the floor, he snapped back into my real world and shouted. Obviously being outside and having double glazing between us,  I couldn’t quite make out what he was yelling. What I actually heard was  ‘mmmmhhhnnnbbb mmm dammmuummm’. Roughly translated I reckon he meant ‘Don’t worry Johnny, I’ll be out in a second. Let me get my coat and boots on and we’ll go for a lovely long walk ( not forgetting the scrunchy packet of tasty treats) and we will exercise and chat until the ever weakening autumnal sun starts to set in the West. Here I come my loyal companion’.

If he did say that he didn’t mean it. The door did open, I jumped inside but my heart sank as I saw him rummaging in his man drawer for a notebook and pen. Oh no, he’s been here before. Poetry Day? Thank goodness it’s only once a year. Me and my camo-bow will melt into the background until he gets over it.

Your bow tied dog blogger.

Johnny Meringue.