One day my father said to the family
‘I’m finally gonna train that dog!’
and dragged our vibrant little Westie
out into a chill front room.
He batted its backside so hard
the dog skedaddled across the carpet;
a billiard ball bouncing off solid oak,
then turned on its belly, a crocodile.
‘Come here!’ he yelled and the little sod
had to crawl along freezing ground
to be yelped again across the room;
by volcano pulses of angry magma.
Age seven, I sat next door
deep in icy romance wondering,
wondering, wondering what the holy
King of Heaven suggested I should do.
