Sam’s Song

Father’s Day, 1994
(It really was June 19!)

Back in 1994, when Samantha and I first began living with each other, during our long walks together, I composed this little bit of “doggerel” (to the obvious tune of)…

This little dog, she’s a pup.
She’s got big paws and a tail.
With an arf, arf, sniff, sniff,
chew a rawhide bone.
This little dog came running home.
This little pup, she’s a black lab.
She likes running in the park.
With an arf, arf, sniff, sniff,
chase a tennis ball.
This little dog came running home.
This little lab, her name’s Sam.
She’s getting bigger every day.
With an arf, arf, sniff, sniff,
run around the yard.
This little dog came running home.

(I got a new laptop, so I’ve been going through a lot of old data deciding what to archive and what to transfer to the new machine. Among all those files I found the little dog ditty I wrote 24 years ago. (And I still miss that dog! One of the best I’ve ever known!))

But a friend of mine has a cute little fireplug, named Bentley, who isn’t a puppy anymore, but who is a total sweetheart:

Bentley! (Also fondly known as Fireplug and Pork-Belly.)

There’s an old expression about the world going to the dogs, but dogs are, generally speaking, actually pretty fine “people,” so that expression never worked for me. (Far better to say, “The world is going to the apes,” which is exactly what’s happened.)

If the world were run by dogs, oh, wouldn’t that be a fine and wonderful thing! Probably a very happy place, with lots of running and playing and friendly barking.

And it really says something to me that POTUS #45 seems to hate dogs. How can anyone like someone who hates dogs?

Keith Olbermann, who is obviously a pretty fine people himself (because he loves baseball and dogs), said it best:

I mean seriously… if you somehow failed to understand what a miserable excuse for a human being Trump is, this is unmistakable. The guy is a monster!

The world isn’t going to the nice doggies; it’s going to the monsters!

Stay canine, my friends!

About Wyrd Smythe

The canonical fool on the hill watching the sunset and the rotation of the planet and thinking what he imagines are large thoughts. View all posts by Wyrd Smythe

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