No farm dog she, for all her breed,

but the very essence of domestic dog

the archetypal household pet,

all silken coat and pleading eyes,

begging for a biscuit

or a gentle word.

She faithfully assists at gardening chores,

chases balls, plays with the cat,

cavorts in mud until she tires,

and then retires to lick her paws

and sleep upon her beanbag

and, perchance, to dream.

Then she is free to inhabit

a world where sheep are not off limits.

She runs with others of her kind,

over the green-gold mountainside

to find the flocks and bring them

in swirling sweeping droves

down to the farm,

or, in winter dreams,

seeks out lost lambs in drifts of snow

and walks in pride behind the shepherd

carrying the rescued one

to the warm barn.

And there she sleeps

the sleep of duty done

and wakes to her daytime world,

a breakfast biscuit

and new day begun.






If you come in the gloom,

There are white shapes that loom,

And the sounds are decidedly spooky.

No need to fear ghosts;

These are your hosts,

Just Badger and Felix and Luki.


If perchance you canít sleep

And you  try counting sheep

Line leaping over the pea sticks,

Badgerís sure to turn round

And come with a bound,

Followed by Luki and Felix.


If youíre mugged at the gate,

For you noticed too late

An importunate ovine cadger,

If itís headís in your pocket

And nothing will stop it,

Itís almost certainly Badger.


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