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.

Back to shop

And there she sleeps

the sleep of duty done

and wakes to her daytime world,

a breakfast biscuit

and new day begun.

THEY SAY  I’M A WELSH SHEEPDOG

 They say I come of an ancient breed,
native to the land of Wales,
bred for the herding of mountain sheep
and all that that entails.

But somehow they must have got it wrong;
rolling in the manure heap
is my idea of farm work,
and I don’t rate sheep.

I’ve no inclination to chivvy the flock
or to sleep in a kennel or stable.
I prefer entertaining my guests
at a well laid dining room table.

In spite of my size I do my best
to climb on available laps, and my sleep
on my bean bag beside the fire
is quite untroubled by sheep.

 by Brith [which means speckled in Welsh]