
Some more remembrances of Zephy as well as the standard advice one receives from literary instructors.
Zeph, the terrier, stares at me I've never written a poem about her how come? her head tilts querulously some people hate dog poems, I fumble the adjudicator at the last contest passed out this useful advice for future entrants "got a dog poem in your head? -- forget it; gardens in the sunshine? -- yawn; your first love? -- don't even start it" Well growls, Zeph, if life's so boring why not just roll over and die? been there, done that bet he never tasted a good chewstick Yeah, I tell Zeph, if you listen to critics you never do anything She paws at my arm I know -- I still haven't answered the first question Well, your friend Mady is quieter, I try -- more of a still reflective surface probably easier to project thoughts on to (there's nothing still about a Zeph) Zeph paws at me again and barks either she wants out or she's horrified at my fallacious logic I decide it's the logic Look, Zeph, your friend Mady's the resident listener don't even have to go to an office for her services she's not better, just different more the poem-attracting type Zeph's not convinced I need a poem and I need it now, she woofs like NOW NOW and she jumps up and down frantically Zeph's needs are never time-delayed OK, OK I'll do it, I say, opening the door, somewhat shamefaced and she rushes out happily after a squirrel all our universes intersect (the many worlds hypothesis?) what I know is -- when hers was created the joyful call rang out: let there be noise
Copyright © Rod Anderson 1996