Saturday, 26 July 2008
His Royal Highness
I miss him with his uncertainty and his quick wrath. A hybrid marking of piranha and tiger's stripe, a cheeky boy with his gullivers snipped but still randy.
Baron Benson of Great Barr; Abbe Bensoni; Son of Ben. All the names I have conjured for him, but he will always be Benson. Man is Dog's idea of God. Benson is my idea of a baron, a stately pompous baron amongst dogs. In the undergrowth at Great Barr park, the sun shining through the loop of his tail...snuffling in ecstasy the hot undergrowth. Running away from collies, upsetting a gulp of Magpies. But he wouldn't dare, in the final stages of our walks, breach the gaggles of Black Necked Canadian Geese. Hundreds of the bastards - aloof: King Midas amongst them. Instead a furtive nail dipped in the deep green/brown water. I know he dislikes the water when it's deep. Happily he will wade through a stream, but as soon as the murk creeps in - the tentative suggestion of an unknown space (evidently with it's own deep scent - as his nose skims the skin of the surface) he becomes that peculiarly endearing coward that Tony, Emily and I know so well. Looking with eyes as big as the moon, his handsome brown eyes - looking up at me. A moment of atavism. My hero.
Need you now buddy. Need you like you don't even know. For affection that costs nothing, has no bounds and asks no return. You make me soft, lad.