My history with dogs

11 November 2013

A poem written about my relationship with dogs, from child to adult.
Conceived as a spoken word piece.

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I’m going to tell a little tale
About my history with dogs.
I’ll start way back when,
I can’t remember my age,
Older than seven, less than 10.

Frost crunch footsteps on grass,
Hitting golf balls in my local park.
My dad’s by my side, nine-iron in hand
And he’s swinging that thing like “isn’t life grand”.

All of a sudden out of nowhere two snarling German Shepherds
Bundled towards me with their eyes transfixed.
They cut their own hot billowed breath like a razors
And out of silence I hear my dad shout, “Chris!!”

I snapped out from my stupor and ran with all my strength.
Now, I’d love to say I was a natural sprinter
With my athletic build and supple long legs.
But sadly I am not, and it looked and felt like certain death.

So it was lucky for me my dad intervened,
He timed it right and took his nine,
Cracked the canines on their noses
And I collapsed, cheeks flushed like roses.

Everything stopped and was quiet,
The dogs stood at attention and let out little whimpers.
Their master huffed and puffed down the winding path, waving his hand in the air as if to say
“I’m here now!”, but the fat fuck was still miles away…

German Shepherds, the chosen dog of the Nazi’s!
They’re a dog of oppression, of fascism and hate!
I wonder at the outcome of the war had the Nazi’s replaced
The German Shepherd with the dachshund.
The world would be a better place.

Then year after year after year after year
I was convinced dogs could smell my fear.
They barked as I walked by them on the street.
They eyed me up and down and growled
And while I lay in bed at night they howled.

I kept my distance and for years it stayed that way.
That is until I was given no say.
See my sister bought a puppy
A little runt, a bitch, a Staffy.
And I had a go, “what about when you go away”
“what do you know about dogs anyway ”
“plus don’t you know that staffys bite”
“and you’ll wade knee deep in piss and shite”
But it was no good, she was here to stay
And so I learned to love that bitch anyway.

They called her Paris, Paris Taylor

Yes she had a second name.
My sister explained,
If you get a chavvy dog you go all the way.

Fair enough, I thought to myself,
But you’d just graduated from a theatre degree,
So you could have probably found a better way
To make scathing social commentary.

Eight years have now passed,
And in that time my love for canines grew
Mastifs, Ridgebacks, short haired pointers
And maybe even poodles too.

All except chihuahuas, I can’t fucking stand chihuahuas.

It’s weird, I can’t walk past a dog in a park anymore without giving them a stroke
Its owner looking at me strangely like “who the fuck’s this bloke?”
To me it doesn’t matter, boy, if your owner is a girl
Who’s buxom assets carry favour with men across world.
I’m really only in it for the endless games of fetch
And not the lustful daydream of my face amongst her breasts.

But there’s one strange thing about my growing affection
Beyond calling out to them in cutesy inflections.
Because I still don’t have a dog of my own.
And I can’t in all good conscience bring one home.
Cos I live in a small, north London, poxy first floor flat
That being said, I’ll never ever ever ever get a fucking cat…


* Artwork from