I was always on hand when Rin Tin Tin
or Lassie needed food,
spooning it onto Grandad’s hand woven rug,
sat snug by a blazing fire.
They leapt out the TV,
ate with a mean look in each eye,
sniffed the air, looked me straight in the upholster,
cocked a leg, pee’d all over my history homework and were off,
flying down the grey-grained flicker of a dusty trail.
“Hope its tidy in there? When you've finished
its time for tea and then take those fig rolls
on the chair round to Grans for her constipation”
“Yes mam.” They were passing the cattle station
as I glanced at the screen,
one packet of fig rolls locked onto Lassie’s mouth.
"They’re heading south." Texas, a cowpoke's dream.
I leapt on my brother's hobby horse;
“Hi Ho Goldie, up and away.” Faster than the fleas
in Mucky Mickey's turn-ups.
I didn’t give a fig, but lived on the breeze
and the thought of smelling coffee and beans,
with my underpants smothered in dust,
sure took the shine off crusty old pea soup,
steaming in the tureen.