CONFESSIONS OF A PAMPERED POOCH

By Peter Woodgate 

These confessions that I’m making

Are transcribed by my mate Tom

A cat, I met in our garden

But I don’t know where he’s from.

I can’t write this myself, you see,

Cos my paws can’t hold a pen,

So Tom, he kindly offered,

If I didn’t bark at him again.

He sometimes leaves me messages,

I leave some for him too,

Humans, they don’t understand,

The information in a piece of poo.

I know that I should do that

When we go for a walk,

But I save some for the garden

So Tom and I can talk.

Sometimes I wee upon the lawn,

My Dad, it makes him mad,

Those little brown patches on the green,

He thinks that I am bad.

I must confess, I do, do some,

But the foxes do some too,

If you don’t believe me, ask them,

They will tell you that it’s true.

Mostly though, we get on well,

My Mum, my Dad and me

yet still I do some naughty things,

but that’s just me you see.

I’ve made a hole in my nice new bed

And my toys, I just tear them to bits,

My Dad thinks it’s funny when we play “tug”

But my Mum says it gets on her glands.

Despite the fact that I have my own bed

I prefer to sleep on theirs,

When I hear them say “it’s time for bed”

I’m the first one up the stairs.

My Mum says that I snore a lot

And the sound is really bad

But I am “off the hook” you see,

Cos it’s not as loud as my Dad.

I don’t know why, but I get the urge,

To tear around the house,

I jump on chairs and break some things,

Then I’m quiet as a mouse.

I look at them with soulful eyes

And know they are not cross for long,

They love me you see, for being just me,

In their eyes, I can do no wrong.

I love them too, with all my heart,

On good days, and bad, just the same,

I know these things and pull all the strings

In this world, there is no better game.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate