They’re furry
They’re fluffy
I often find myself rubbing their tummies
I think they’re better than bunnies
Cats scratch my couches
And Birds just end up in my pouches
That’s why I’m going to the pound
And I’ll ignore the ones fooling around
The one I want, the dog I’ll get
That will be one I won’t forget

Those eyes
So sad
So loving, loyal and true.
Who can resist that look
From a dog?

Best family member
Of the animal kind.
So devoted to his Mum and Dad
And even uncle.

No fickleness here:
Unflinchingly faithful.
Loving to run and fetch
For his master or mistress.
Even bring in the ‘paper.

See him jump for joy
As you grab the lead
That he’s brought you.
It’s “That time”…

If you let him,
He’ll lick you all over
Before rolling on his back
For a belly rub.
(And his Missus is just the same)!

But those eyes have it:
Bottomlessly sad
So you just have to give him
Strokes and cuddles.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\1\2018.

That faithful dog is waiting at your door,
Bursting with unconditional Love.
He (or she) is pining
For your arrival.
Whining and crying,
All ashake.

At last you are here!
Forward he leaps,
Almost losing balance with the shake
Of his tail.
Ready to lick you
Into oblivion.

So you ruffle his ears
And pat him on the head.
“Good Boy!”

Meanwhile The Cat sits
In haughty isolation
Watching coolly
Indifferent to all.

But you still go to her
As she rolls over
And bears her furry tummy
For you to scratch
And her to purr.

I love these pets
Or rather
Family Members.
While they are with us,
There is nothing better.

Paul Butters

© PB 7\1\2018.

My turtle is left handed
(Or footed, I should say)
He cooks and eats and plays guitar
All night and yes, all day.

My rabbit is a weird one,
Her fur a shade of blue.
Though on Tuesdays, it turns yellow.
I don't know what to do.

My prize pig would be normal,
Though I tell you with a sigh,
He blows raspberry bubbles,
A mile wide and high.

Every home has a Mother
Waiting with open arms at the door.
And a Dad in his armchair,
As the tradition goes.

Welcome to the lounge
Where we can huddle by the fire.
TV in the corner
And - if you have them –
Dogs and cats to stroke.

Then there’s Sunday Lunch
And those daily aromas of baking.
Memories of scooping out the bowl
And eating most of the peas you shelled.

Home – a place of refuge
Where you can bring all your troubles
And have them resolved.

Our Mum kept a beautiful garden,
Resplendent with colourful flowers.
An oasis on a council estate.

As Dorothy Gale of Oz fame said before me:
There’s no place like Home.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\11\2017.