Shoogie

Shoogie was a dog with a nose,
the kind, you know,
that once planted would suck
like a hose,
he one part Beagle.
My father would take him walking
just to watch him sniff.

There was one time my father could have killed him:
he was on his side
and working on the flue in the fireplace,
one leg drawn up
to give leverage, but also advantage
which Shoogie took
to plant his nose firmly in place.

My father shook
and kicked, but old Shoog was behind.
Then my father raised up
and cracked his head on the bricks.
Shoogie budged, but not too much
although my father now was shouting.

By this time my father was kicking,
backed out and stood
and Shoogie took off like a train.
"Pesky dog," said my father to us, his children
who were weak as rain

and found it hard to sit up
and so remained
lying prostrate on the rug
full of giggles
and with sides that hurt.