Here's a poem about dogs, Brains and Batshit might like it
Ode to a German Shepherd
Did Otto dream of his family
the first night he slept in our house?
The press of their bodies still by his side.
The air warm and damp with their breath.
Only to wake to the smell of a strange bed,
only to stumble to the silver water bowl,
the kibble softened with unfamiliar milk.
Family was all that mattered to him,
a shining noun that drove him through the days.
On forest walks, he charged up and down,
herding us. I walked ahead, my mother behind.
Otto could not bear the growing distance.
If he had spoken, he might have said,
You two. Work it out. But we never did.
He moved across the unspeakable things
and required no language, not even his name.
In winter, I threw a stick out on thin ice.
A betrayal. He skittered across the surface.
It cracked under his weight. He plunged in,
only to emerge sopping wet, fur flattened,
the stick clenched in his jaw. Shivering.
Returning to my side as if it were nothing.
When I look back, he always seems to be
forgiving me with those frank eyes,
shiny as the drops he shook into the air.
by Alvy Carragher
Poem of the Week in today's Irish Times