Bonnie, and Ted
Poems by Jessica Brady
Bonnie
They were throwing her on the scrap heap that day.
I heard them say always running away
The headache of finding her again
To bring her back to her dirty pen
They were so finished with all that
What a brat she was, they said
And now her skin is black and scabbed
Her teats infected from being grabbed by her hungry puppies all the time
Bloody and weeping from running
Through brambles and gorse while
Escaping with her tiny force
To get away, get away
They called her a cunning bitch
Which she was: a female dog, side-eyeing them
To find a way to escape her fate
The kicks, the dirt, the near-starvation,
The forced impregnation
Again and again and again
And the pathetic joy of suckling her young until they took them
Again and again and again
She was close to the scrapheap even then
How many will they get out of her?
Before her bones become too brittle
Her little frame, her black, infected skin
Covered by the matted white curls of her breed
Indeed, how could a little Soul so thin
Win this fight for her life?
Run, little Mamma, run!
Fly past the scrapheap, get to the road
Survive the speeding cars, hide in the ditch which will shelter you.
Look for the dog catcher from the pound
He is around! He is waiting for you,
Brave little Mamma, run.
Let him lift you into a safer, cleaner crate than the one you have known of late
He will take you to a foster home
A place of love, like you have never known
They will wash you and feed you
And give you time to rest, to switch
To be a dog and not a bitch.
The scrap heap people are known to exist
But they will never get on a blacklist
They are too cunning, too cruel
Instead they will fool those who think
That they have bought
A cute white puppy with a pedigree
They will never see
The misery.
Ted
Little Man, your scrap heap was not the same
You did know love and puppy mischief
Chewing slippers, pausing mid-reef
When you got caught
Squeaking your favourite ball for hours
You had it all.
Then came a day and they took you away
Your beloved person had died.
Confused, you refused what the others wanted to make you try.
They demanded obedience at any cost
But you were a Westie, your freedom was lost
You too ran away, once or twice
They caught you though, and their anger was like ice
No mercy they showed
They had you tied with a metal rope
Around your middle in the hope
That taming with pain
Would make you obey again.
You were ready to die in that shed
Until a woman came and led
You out of that darkness to the light
Ted, she said, gently
And you listened, your ears shivering with fright
Your tiny, docked tail tucked in.
Ted, she said again
You are coming home with me
You little gentleman
And you did not flinch
You did not move an inch
You leaned into the warmth of her hand
The metal band
Around your chest was gone
You could breathe and look up
With your tired, blunted, 10-year-old eyes
Into the face, into the soul of her who would take you home
You threw yourself on your back, four legs in the air
But one front paw ready to shake her hand
It's a deal, you said,
I am your man.
Jessica Brady is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am and Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook House Hotel. (A fun group that welcomes all writers.)