Archives for posts with tag: pets

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Vet’s office
by Mari Ness

They are still cheerful, on the phone.
Clients can’t come in, but we
can bring our pets
to the door. I arrange a date. They
come out into the heat, the burning sun
take my little cat, promise
to call. I take
a slow route home.
By the time I’m there, the vet
has already called. It’s time.
For this, I am allowed inside.
Whenever I am ready
to say my last words
through a mask.
This is when
I should give you a hug,
the vet says. But. She holds
the furry body. We all
hope the virus doesn’t spread through tears.

Photo by Gerd Altmann, used by permission. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mari Ness lives in central Florida. Her fiction has appeared in multiple publications, including Tor.com, Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, Uncanny, Nightmare, Diabolical Plots, Apex and Fantasy. She tweets at @mari_ness, and occasionally remembers to update her blog at marikness.wordpress.com.

Enlight74
My Front Door
by Eileen Wesson

Before I was a door
I was an old oak tree
A canopy for fledgling life
The heart of the meadow
Barn owls hid their nests
In the nape of my branches
Squirrels slept in my hollow cavities
Woodpeckers returned year after year
Drumming acorns into my limbs
Widening the holes to raise their young
I was shade in the summer while
Families gathered
Children played hide ‘n seek
Squeals of laughter circled my trunk
Couples celebrated their vows
Promising to love one another forever, then
Promises were broken
I listened to their stories
My leaves brushed away their tears
I felt pocketknives carve initials
Deep into my core as, sober shattered
Stargazing lovers spent the nights with me
Asking endless questions
Demanding guarantees before risking
To love again
I said nothing
I was the heart of the meadow

Tract housing sectioned off the meadow
I was deemed unmanageable
I took up too much land
Oversized, they said
Too many low-hanging branches
A hazard, they said
Someone could get hurt, they said

Now I stand guard to
The entrance of my family
Protecting all that is precious
I listen to music
Hear their stories
I open and close to the
Gathering of families
Grandchildren playing, barbeques, weddings
Sometimes I
Smell like last night’s dinner
I’m adorned with wreaths
As the seasons change
I bloom year round
Painted green like the meadow
I once stood in
I am the heart of the house

WESSON IZZY
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My process as a writer combines decades of acting, voiceover work, and my love of communicating with animals that has widened my perspective of life.  This is a photo of Izzy and myself. She was my constant companion for 18 years. I rescued her off the streets of LA. She remained (feral) wild till her last day. I learned more from this beautiful soul than any of my animals. Izzy could not be touched, bathed, or nails clipped, so I sharped my telepathic skills to communicate with her.  She smelled like fresh wheat fields and was never sick.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Eileen Wesson is an actress/writer & animal communicator who is a member of the Los Angeles Poets & Writers Collective. Her poems and essays have appeared in FRE&D publications, Silver Birch Press, CG magazine, and other journals and anthologies. She rescues all living creatures and lives in LA with a bunch of dogs.

JOHNSON
Haiku
by P M F Johnson

a small white dog
watches out the front door:
rain cools into snow

Originally published in Frogpond, Issue XXV:3.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Our dog Bogart used to wait for me to return from work every evening. I would see his face in the lower corner of the front door window, his ears perked up, until he spotted me. At which point he would vanish. To run tell my wife, I suppose. We still miss him. He was a very polite dog. Always waited his turn at the ice cream cone.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: P M F Johnson has placed poems with Threepenny Review, Measure, Nimrod, Evansville Review, North American Review, Atlanta Review, and many others. He has won The Gerald Brady Senryu Award from Haiku Society of America, as well as a Plainsongs Award. He and his wife, the writer Sandra Rector, live in Minnesota. Learn more at PMFJohnson.com. Find him on Twitter @PMFJohnson1.

Dakota door damage
I had a dog who ate doors
by Joe Cottonwood

Take a look at this entry.
A rescue door from a garage sale.
Paid too much but it was love at first sight.
Flowers painted on the one big beveled pane,
smoothest glass I’ll ever clean.
Then came a dog like a chewing machine.

Dakota ate doors.
She, too, a rescue
found wandering the streets of San Mateo.
About her history, Dakota wouldn’t speak
but in the story for sure
there’s a shredded door.

So I cut out a panel, installed a pet flap.
Dakota went out, Dakota came back.
My friend to the end.

Now three children and six dogs later,
folks tell me it’s time to re-rescue
with new molding, sandpaper, wood putty too.
But no. Each gnaw,
each claw scratch speaks as decor.
Emblems of Dakota.
I’ll never restore.

Dakota teeth 1
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Joe Cottonwood has built or repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest book is Foggy Dog. Visit him at joecottonwood.com.

CARMIGNANI1
J’adore My Door
by Karyl Carmignani

Solid and fearless, with varnish peeling like sunburnt skin.
Every push and pull blurts a micro-shriek across the threshold,
except when Santa Anas howl,
sucking moisture from every living thing, making us a bit mad,
and relaxing hinges, an intruder’s delight.
But lock tumblers jostle like cubes in a glass, and vow to keep us safe.

Screen door protects her stoic mate from sun and strangers.
Creates a veiled reality,
perfect for cats who pass the time
counting leaves crossing the porch,
or growl low and feral at passing ‘possums or toms looking for love,
as night falls hard on my newly quiet street.

There is a jangled ache outside in the absence of people.
This age of uncertainty, financial ruin, chills and fever
has tucked us in tight behind doors,
sturdy, hollow, painted, flimsy, raw, weeping.
We share this indoor life.
Separate and together.
It is a privilege
and a luxury to have a solid door to keep death at bay
and the cats inside, close.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Forgive the shaggy format of this piece. The door prompt has been on my To Write List for a couple weeks, and it didn’t bubble to the surface until the kitties were watching the leaves scuttle across the porch before a storm. I’m eternally grateful for their furry company during this trying time.

CARMIGNANI
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Karyl Carmignani is a science writer for San Diego Zoo Global who also dabbles in creative writing. You can read her nonfiction animal-centric articles here. One of her all-time favorites is about a fascinating and misunderstood bird, the ostrich. Read it and see them spinning on video here. She loves morning coffee (with a splash of milk), rainy afternoons (few and far between), a good joke, great books, her husband, her two cats Tina and Piper, and random, unending beauty in the world. While not a fan of this “house arrest,” she is confident that this, too, shall pass and we can get back to hugging friends, eating out, biking, hiking through parks, traveling near or far, and rejoicing in our fleeting existence with full and shining hearts.

Sittner_1
Free to Be
by Porsche S.

MY door
my dog door
allows freedom
allows independence
it flaps
it flaps open
it flaps closed

I use my nose
coming & going
learned to do it
with favorite treats
1 inside & 1 outside
it took 2 treats
easy

wildlife teases me
squirrels run fence pickets
chipmunks dig up gardens
moles make surface tunnel tubes
rabbits leave organic kibble
gopher requires eviction
I harass them all

as long as I know when
Mom inserts panel blocker
my nose & face
avoid being smooshed
freedom
independence
life is good

Sittner_2

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Porsche is an ancient standard Schnauzer who believes she’s still young. In her retirement, she has recently finished a memoir that her human Mom, experienced at dogspeak, is editing. Porsche enjoys telling the tales of her interesting life; she is always ready for another chapter.

Sittner_3a

ABOUT THE EDITOR: Leslie Sittner’s print works are available in The Apple Tree by Third Age Press (2016 -17-18-19-21), Adirondack Life Magazine, BraVa anthology, and read on NPR. Online poems and prose reside at unearthed, Silver Birch Press, 101Words, 50 Word Challenge, 50 Word Stories, and Epic Protest Poems. A collection of essays about European travels with her ex-husband in the late 1960s awaits publishing. Leslie is currently editing the memoir Porsche mentions above.

watercolor girl

Tending the Dogs
by Elizabeth Hilts

“A job would be good for her,” Mrs. Pierce told my mother when I was 12 and the chaos of Mother’s schizophrenia was taking a firm hold on our lives. “She should go work with my daughter, tend the dogs.”

Mother drove me over to the Count and Countess’s stone mansion on the Point. He had escaped the Hungarian Revolution with his title; she was rumored to be a Guggenheim. They bred Miniature Schnauzers. Countess and Mother chatted over tea and small cakes carried in by a uniformed maid. “She can start on Saturday morning,” the Countess said.

Five mornings a week the cook doled out each dog’s breakfast: hard-boiled egg, cottage cheese, and kibble. I carried the bowls out to the kennel where the dogs quivered in their crates, stacked four high, five wide. Twenty of them, plus the Count’s dog, Dolly, who I collected from his suite where he lounged on the bed, lounged in the bubble bath. Dolly would not come when called. “You’ll have to come get her,” he’d tell me, his robe falling open, the bubbles parting.

After breakfast, I brushed their teeth, hand clamped firmly around each muzzle while they growled deep in their throats. Washed and blow-dried their cunning little beards. They took their revenge during the walk around the point of land overlooking the tidal inlet, skittering into the underbrush before charging out to nip at my ankles. I was already accustomed to the mad ambush but wasn’t yet immunized from fear.

The cook made me lunch: hot soup and a sandwich, doled out on plain white china. My mother had already stopped cooking by then. I ate in the kennel, understanding that it was possible to be grateful for small simple things.

IMAGE: “Miniature Schnauzer” by Watercolor Girl. Prints available at fineartamerica.com.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I loved and hated my first job in almost equal parts but I’d never completely understood why, of course, until attempting to write this piece. That’s part of why I write: to gain access to the parts of myself that remain shrouded somehow.

Hilts

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Elizabeth Hilts writes memoir, essays, and fiction; though she has written poetry, no one needs to really know about that. During the academic year, she toils in the fields of academe as an adjunct instructor of English and related subjects. She is in a constant state of revision both as a writer and as a human being. Her work has appeared in Spry Literary Journal, Extract(s), and in the Black Lawrence Press anthology, Feast.

Morris–
My Daughter Teaches Every Child She Knows to Love Her Cat
by Alice Morris

He was a half-grown stray regularly ripped to shreds
by the mangy pack of oversized ferals that had the run

of the old
beat-down neighborhood.

Early each morning he’d show up outside our cottage door —
crying, shaking, bleeding.

My three-year-old watched as I left him a little milk,
a bit of bread, a nip of cheese.

I’d tell my daughter stay back, explain
disease.

Eventually, she had to touch the copper-colored fur
on his back

and as though he knew he had found his home, his girl,
he never left a scratch.

We named him Penny because of his color, and because
it seemed his cat-world believed

he had no value.
But my child endlessly played with, talked about,

and drew pictures of our newfound Penny.
Soon, he appeared in other children’s family drawings.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: A picture of Penny found in my jewelry box after 18 years (2017). My daughter made this small cutout picture of Penny when she was about five years old. (She was very skilled with the scissors.) She used an index card for extra strength. (Photo by Alice Morris.)

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Lost and Found — I first thought of the diamond that I lost from a replacement wedding band, and recalled the dark hole left in its place, but this subject was suddenly eclipsed by a flood of images regarding, essentially, a refugee cat. The more I thought about how we found each other, it seemed that lost diamond kept getting smaller and smaller.

Morris–

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Alice Morris
, a Minnesota native, earned her BS from Towson State University, and MS from Johns Hopkins. She comes to writing with a background in art — published in a West Virginia textbook and The New York Art Review. Her poetry appears or forthcoming in The Broadkill Review, a shared chapbook, themed poetry collections and anthologies — most recently, Bared: Contemporary Poetry and Art on Bras and Breasts by Les Femmes Folles Books. Her work is also published by Silver Birch Press, The Avocet, The Weekly Avocet, and Delaware Beach Life.

Author photo by Alice Morris.

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Curiosity
by Roslyn Ross

Lost that grey kitten,
eyes like stars and
fur in silken clouds
of love, damp-nosed
and curious, so very
curious –

Found, that grey kitten,
eyes clouded, fur limp,
body curled in death,
sighing from the final
bite of the snake, as it
defended its babies
from curiosity

IMAGE: “A Kind of Cat” by Paul Klee (1937).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: We live on a farm and in summer, the brown snakes are common and kittens are as ever, much too curious. We have lost three kittens in the past two years.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Roslyn Ross has been writing poetry since she was a child. She was born in Australia and has lived around the world for three decades, but is now settled in the Adelaide Hills in South Australia.

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Sammy
by Neil Creighton

The Indian Pacific from Perth
has arrived on Platform 2.

We poured from the train.
The platform surged with people.
Baggage handlers scurried around.
Grey day. Spiteful rain. Cold wind.

Better check on your dog, son.

Sammy was in a dog-cage in the baggage car.
He was eight. I was sixteen.
His puppy self had lain in my arms.
Together we paddled the glittering lake,
he in the front, alert, mouth open, excited.
He loped alongside my bicycle.
He bounded comically through high grass.
He lay at my feet in the evening.
He was my brother and my friend.

There’s a dog loose on the tracks.

I barely heard that announcement
as I wandered down to the baggage car.
I’d checked on him on each stop.
Now I’d take him to our new home.

I’ve come for my dog.

Jeez, mate, sorry, he’s gone,
We tried to get him out of his cage.
He held back and slipped his collar
and he bolted.

I ran through the crowd, searching the tracks,
calling and whistling again and again.
No dog loped up happily to lick my hand.

Finally I stopped.
He was gone,
3,400 kilometres from his home,
running in a strange city
full of noise and trams and cars and trains,
increasingly desperate, hungry, alone.

The day was cloudy, cold and wet.
I reached for my sunglasses
To hide my grief, though tears flowed freely.

Sammy, my dear friend,
don’t run too far.
Find someone to take you in.
Let them love you like I do.

In a sad huddle, my family waited.
I walked past them towards the platform steps.
They seemed so very far away.

IMAGE: “Boy with a Dog” by Pablo Picasso (1905).

Creighton for Sammy

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I have always loved dogs, and although my father was in the Royal Australian Air Force and we led a gypsy life, criss-crossing the Australian continent, my dog always came with us. My poem recounts what happened when we travelled from Perth to Melbourne one cold, wet day.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: My dogs, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and Miss Eliza Bennet (Darcy and Lizzie).

Neil Creighton Bio Photo1

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Neil Creighton is an Australian poet whose work as a teacher of English and Drama brought him into close contact with thousands of young lives, most happy and triumphant but too many tragically filled with neglect. It made him intensely aware of how opportunity is so unequally proportioned and his work often reflects strong interest in social justice. His recent publications include Poetry Quarterly, Autumn Sky Daily, Praxis mag online,  Rat’s Ass Review, and Verse-Virtual, where he is a contributing editor. He blogs at windofflowers.blogspot.com.au.