Three Poems about Man and Dog by Gareth Culshaw


Every day he walked a dog that wasn’t his.

The lead he used was made of socks.

He took the dog everywhere, even to the pub.

The dog loved a packet of pork scratching,

and they both played darts in the lounge.

The man put the dog on a stool to give him

a chance. They hit double top, treble twenty,

but neither had the bulls-eye. When closing

time came they tapped the pavement, talked

all the way home. He jumped the gate,

opened it for the dog, then they went to the back

garden for a piss. The wife went bonkers

in the morning. She snapped his pool cue in half,

bent the darts and ripped up the lead. He now

walked the dog with his wife’s bra.

Cars went by and beeped their horns.

Someone said ‘Even an ambulance honked’

His wife went shopping for a new ‘F’ cup.

The man and the dog walked to the pub

and the wife ran home to lock the doors,

and hide her new bras in the airing cupboard.


There was a dog who had a man

to walk twice a day. He put the lead around

his own neck to save the man floating

away like a released kite.

They went the butcher’s market, bought

meat on the bone. The man ate the meat

passed the bone to the dog. Who licked it

with a paint brush tongue.

When in the park the dog passed the man

sticks to carry, also found golf balls under a shrub.

They both sat on the bench read local papers,

Evening News and Dog Independance.

The dog worked five days a week, helped deliver

milk while the man sat at home on benefits.

They argued over train fares on days out

as the dog said he got up early to pay bills.

The man threatened to leave the dog. He even

put his lead on ebay. The dog made the man

a curry, mixed in a herb based dog food, to make

him go the loo during the night.

He even took out the bathroom light bulb.


He walks along the road with his head held high.

He sniffs at lampposts, raises a leg, whistles away

last night's beer. His tail hangs as a dead weasel.

His wife walks beside him, pulls her shopping trolley

as they head to Asda. She leaves him outside before asking

does he want anything for tea? He replies ‘Fish Fingers’

People walk past, tap him on the head. He drops his ears

sits on his behind. A child rubs his back, touches his nose.

He smells pork pies in a bag as a shopper leaves the store.

Half-hour later his wife duck-walks out. Yokes the weeks

shopping on rheumatoid fingers. Her feet struggle to stay firm

in coastal sandals. The pink skirt curtains her legs.

The man yawns, stands up and walks beside her. He licks

his lips follows the pavement with his nose. They pass

people, cats, and children. He sniffs at the bags

catches a whiff of fresh cornbeef. His wife sighs from the weight

of being alone. They hit the last corner and he runs off home.

Opens the front door with a key. Turns on the kettle and places

two teabags in a mug for his wife. Five minutes later she enters

hears Beethoven on the CD player. Sees her husband

sipping a beer and reading the local newspaper.

Gareth lives in Wales. He has two collections by FutureCycle, The Miner & A Bard's View. His Twitter handle is: @culshawpoetry1