Tag Archives: Dogs

With the mutts…for Valentine’s Day

Boys and dogs LOC crop

Eskimo boys and dogs LOC

Boys and dogs in street LOC

[dogs and boys can treat you like trash. and dogs do love trash]

dogs and boys can treat you like trash.   and dogs do love trash
to nuzzle their muzzles.    they slather with tongues that smell like their nuts

but the boys are fickle when they lick you.  they stick you with twigs
and roll you over like roaches.    then off with another:  those sluts

with their asses so tight you couldn’t get them to budge for a turd
so unlike the dogs:  who will turn in a circle showing & showing their butts

a dog on a leash:  a friend in the world.  he’ll crawl into bed on all fours
and curl up at your toes.    he’ll give you his nose.    he’ll slobber on cuts

a dog is not fragile; he’s fixed.    but a boy:  cannot give you his love
he closes his eyes to your kisses.    he hisses.    a boy is a putz

with a sponge for a brain.   and a mop for a heart:  he’ll soak up your love
if you let him and leave you as dry as a cork.     he’ll punch out your guts

when a boy goes away:  to another boy’s arms.    what else can you do
but lie down with the dogs.   with the hounds with the curs.    with the mutts

D. A. Powell

more.

All images from the Library of Congress online image archive.

Goodbye Alf

alf

…Some day I’ll join him right there,
but now he’s gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I’ll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I’ll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex..

–Pablo Neruda, A Dog Has Died

IMG_8050

Dear Alf,

If Neruda is right…and you are in that heaven for dogdom, then there are not only sticks for mouthing but streets for you to continue crossing, looking both ways first, in that careful way that you have. Thank you for loving Phil and Jill so much, for walking them so often and so well, for the crossed paws and the philosophy, and for being their family in the sondaughterloverpartnersisterbrothermotherfather way that dogs so often are. Thank you for pushing your nose into my crotch when I visited. I know you meant well. I did too. The world is going to miss you. It already does. Phil says no other word like he says “Alfie.”

Love,

Laurel

Photos by Jill Weinstein

Truman the Hound Dog

When Erica and Marnie adopted Truman the hound dog they didn’t know that they were also adopting a foxtail that was buried deep inside of his chest. They found out three weeks later, when he almost died. Luckily a team of surgeons saved Truman and he is back to sniffing, walking, looking philosophical, and other hounddoggery. The trouble? His first four weeks with his adopted family cost them more than 10,000 dollars.

This Friday Truman is having a fundraiser and it’s going to be great. Come to El Rio in San Francisco from 4-7pm September 13th, for happy hour. Drink proceeds go to Truman’s healthcare expenses and so do $5 raffle tickets for wonderful things like original drawings by Wendy MacNaughton, Go-Go’s vinyl, massages, signed books by Mary Roach, and more.

Often

Often we are sad animals.
Bored dogs, monkeys getting rained on. 
Robert Hass, Human Wishes, 1990

Dog Day Afternoon (and Morning and Evening)

Her name is Lemon.

dessert first

Today I took a leap ahead of the last two chapters and wrote the last two paragraphs of the book. It felt really good.

I’ve also been re-readng Mark Doty’s Dog Years. What a fucking good book.

make that doggie proud

Thank you TED for making me a fellow! See you in Long Beach 2012.

HEADLINE: “Depressed ferret escapes circus with ape and parrot in tow”

In Russia, a ferret, parrot and monkey escaped a circus where staff claimed that they ran away because they were “depressed.”

“We believe that the animals escaped due to depression, since we have had unremitting rains here in Chita,” performance director of the circus Zhanna Lazerson told Interfax news agency.”

“We later found the ape in a dog’s cage, where they slept together hugging,” she added.”

As for the ferret, ‘He’s used to humans; he knows how to open doors and comes if you pat on your leg. I knew there was an escaped ferret, so I took him to a zoo,” the finder, Ivan Furtsev, said.’

The parrot is still on the loose.

http://rt.com/news/ferret-circus-ape-parrot/

__________

UPDATE

The door opening, pant-leg patting ferret that was turned into the zoo was not the actual missing ferret.

According to an article in the Moscow Times, the “circus art director Zhanna Lazerson rejected the ferret after examining it at the zoo.

“It’s not our ferret,” she said…

Lazerson said earlier that the circus wasn’t exactly missing its ferret, calling the animal a ”terrible glutton, idle to the core.”

North Caucasus Democracy by Kukka Ranta

In Search of Mathew, Mama, Fia. Also FREE PIANO on Page at Steiner.

Yesterday, while walking the long way home down Page St in San Francisco, I saw two small blonde dogs on the sidewalk. They had pointy ears and the kind of coats that remind me of tablecloths. Their leashes were tied together and they seemed to be thinking about something. As I got closer I heard piano music. It was loud. But I couldn’t see a piano. Or a person playing it. Or anyone at all with the dogs.

Then I saw it. Behind two large trash cans, one for compost, one for recycling. In front of the old food bank.

I stood and watched for a while. Passersby stopped to pet the blondes. They ambled about but didn’t leave their spot on the sidewalk. Eventually the playing stopped and a man stood up from behind the cans. His name was Mathew. He introduced me to the dogs: Mama and Fia. Mama is the mama of Fia. Fia is a bit of a fighter and likes to play tug-of-war with Mathew’s sleeves while he’s talking. Mathew said that he’s been walking the dogs down to play the piano for them since the food bank put it out on the street. He also says he feeds them chicken though it’s gotten hard because his rent was raised to 830 dollars a month and affording chicken on top of this is difficult and he’s not sure how long he can do it.

I didn’t have my video camera or a sound recorder but I asked Matthew if he could come back today. We said we hoped the piano would still be there and that it wouldn’t be raining. He gave me his card, said he no longer had a phone. We agreed on 9am.

This morning at 9am it was raining lightly. When I showed up the piano was still there. A bag of human shit was next to it. A broken umbrella and a muddy comic book too.

The man who used to run the food bank said no one with dogs had been there. And the only person to play the piano so far was a man who walked around the city looking for pianos to play.

If you see Mathew, please tell him I’m looking for him.

A Drunkard is madde for the present, but a Madde man is drunke alwayes.

…or so said Donald Lupton. In 1632. About the residents of Bethlem, the mental hospital founded by monks in 13th century London. One of the oldest institutions to focus on housing the insane, Bethlem gave us the word Bedlam (until the 19th century it was known mostly for its depraved residents and brutal conditions). Until 1770, it was also a place for Londoners to amuse themselves by touring, and gawking, at the residents…some of which were chained by the neck or leg and naked. One famous resident crowed like a rooster.

A Rake’s Progress,” by William Hogarth, 1735, shows wealthy visitors touring Bedlam and fanning themselves while the mad writhe in the foreground. Fifty years later, a visitor wrote to his priest: “In those days, when Bedlam was open to the cruel curiosity of Holiday ramblers, I have been a visitor there. Though a boy, I was not altogether insensible of the misery of the poor captives, nor destitute of feeling for them. But the Madness of some of them had such a humorous air, and displayed itself in so many whimsical freaks, that it was impossible not to be entertained, at the same time that I was angry with myself with being so.” Other visitors compared the residents to wild beasts, the stench to kennels. By the mid 19th century though, things were improving. The heavy metal restraints were gone. And there was light and air in the wards. And animals. Lots of animals.

The Men’s Ward in 1860, The Illustrated London News. Note the dogs and bird cages. Photo: Bethlem Royal Hospital Museum and Archive

The Women’s Ward in 1860, The Illustrated London News. Note the bird cages in the patients’ hands. Photo: Bethlem Royal Hospital Museum and Archive

While it was likely that there were always animals living at Bethlem (whether they were food animals, rats and mice, cats to keep down the rats and mice, squirrels who lived in nearby trees, horses used for transportation, or city dogs) by the mid 1800s dogs and birds were inside the wards as pets and perhaps an early version of animal-assisted therapy. Whether or not there were any animal residents thought to be mad, I do not know but my initial searches haven’t turned anything up.

Today, Bethlem remains a working hospital treating a range of psychiatric disorders. And while you can (thankfully) no longer tour the wards and taunt the patients, you can visit the Museum and Archives. They have a range of fascinating objects on display…from the key that locked the front gate of the hospital to a selection of art work by previous patients. There is an additional gallery at the hospital, which is also open to the public, and focuses on living artists (treated at the hospital or currently in residence). Called the Bethlem Gallery, it is right now showing the work of a man named Albert and his large-scale drawings of imaginary buildings.

Photos from top: Bethlem Gallery signage; literature on the side of the art therapy studios; Bethlem basketball court; cat mosaic tribute to Bethlem artist Louis Wain.

Thank you to Colin Gale of Bethlem Royal Hospital Museum and Archive and Jason Holt.

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