(pic : Archie)

LAMENT OF A LADY WHO HAS GONE TO THE DOGS

There was a time, there really was, when I was young and tender,
When show dog meant a Disney Star and bitch was not a gender.
I went to bed at half-past ten – I went to Church on Sunday,
On Saturday I baked the beans and did the wash on Monday.

But when I got a certain pup, an erstwhile friend said “Show”,
And so I did and so I do… Oh, what I don’t know!
Once I dressed for flair and style – that was the life don’t knock it,
Now every dress from bad to ball must have a good bait pocket.

I used to have a certain air, I wafted in perfume,
I used to smell like Nuit D’Amour – not I smell like Mr Groom.
My furniture was Haute decor, my pets – a tank of guppies,
Now I’ve furniture – unstuffed – and well-adjusted puppies.

I used to long for furs and jewels and a figure classed as super,
But now the thing I yearn for most is a nice new Pooper Scooper!
I was taught to be well groomed, no matter where I went,
Now all the grooming that I do is in the handler’s tent.

While once I spoke in dulcet tones, in pristine prose and frail
I now am using language that would turn a sailor pale.
I adored a man who murmured verse through intimate little dinners,
But now the words I thrill to hear are just three:- Best of Winners

I rise at dawn and pack the car, the road it is a long one,
The one I routed on the map is invariably the wrong one.
I really love my doggy life – I wouldn’t care to change it,
But when I get that BEST IN SHOW – I could maybe rearrange it.

And when my days on earth are gone I’ll go without much nudging,
Just give me three weeks closing date – and let me know who’s judging!

by Berle Allan

I’ll Never Forget a Dog Named Beau

 He never came to me when I would call
Unless I had a tennis ball,
Or he felt like it,
But mostly he didn’t come at all.

When he was young
He never learned to heel
Or sit or stay,
He did things his way.

Discipline was not his bag
But when you were with him things sure didn’t drag.
He’d dig up a rosebush just to spite me,
And when I’d grab him, he’d turn and bite me.

He bit lots of folks from day to day,
The delivery boy was his favorite prey.
The gas man wouldn’t read our meter,
He said we owned a real man-eater.

He set the house on fire
But the story’s long to tell.
Suffice it to say that he survived
And the house survived as well.

On the evening walks, and Gloria took him,
He was always first out the door.
The Old One and I brought up the rear
Because our bones were sore.

He would charge up the street with Mom hanging on,
What a beautiful pair they were!
And if it was still light and the tourists were out,
They created a bit of a stir.

But every once in a while, he would stop in his tracks
And with a frown on his face look around.
It was just to make sure that the Old One was there
And would follow him where he was bound.

We are early-to-bedders at our house-
I guess I’m the first to retire.
And as I’d leave the room he’d look at me
And get up from his place by the fire.

He knew where the tennis balls were upstairs,
And I’d give him one for a while.
He would push it under the bed with his nose
And I’d fish it out with a smile.

And before very long
He’d tire of the ball
And be asleep in his corner
In no time at all.

And there were nights when I’d feel him
Climb upon our bed
And lie between us,
And I’d pat his head.

And there were nights when I’d feel this stare
And I’d wake up and he’d be sitting there
And I reach out my hand and stroke his hair.
And sometimes I’d feel him sigh
and I think I know the reason why.

He would wake up at night
And he would have this fear
Of the dark, of life, of lots of things,
And he’d be glad to have me near.

And now he’s dead.
And there are nights when I think I feel him
Climb upon our bed and lie between us,
And I pat his head.

And there are nights when I think
I feel that stare
And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,
But he’s not there.

Oh, how I wish that wasn’t so,
I’ll always love a dog named Beau.

(Jimmy Stewart)

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THE HAND OF A BREEDER 

The hand of a breeder is the hand that calms the dog during childbirth.
It is the hand that caresses her belly to calm her during contractions.

A breeder’s hand is the hand that makes the path free to let the pups be born easier.
It is the hand that does not tremble and is under the blood to help a puppy in trouble.

A breeder’s hand is the hand that breaks the puppy’s bag if it is not broken after birth.
It is the hand that helps rub and clean the puppies and help their breathing.

A breeder’s hand is the one that tries to revive a puppy, but sometimes he has to give up when there is no heartbeat.
The hand of a breeder is the hand that cut the umbilical cord when the mother does not.

In addition, the hand of the breeder is the one that weighs the puppy every day to see if everything goes well.
A breeder’s hand is the hand that puts a puppy away closer to the mother while the mother looks at you full of confidence.

The hand that rubs the chest, so that breast milk is activated.
A breeder’s hand is the one that rubs on his eyes and fights fatigue and sleeps after days without falling asleep.

It is the hand that gives milk bottles day and night when there is very little yield.
A breeder’s hand is the one that brings the lost puppy back to the mother, the one who plays with the puppy to socialize, the one who teaches the puppy to switch to solid nutrition.

The hand of a breeder is the hand that takes care of the little ones when it does not go well with them.
The hand of a breeder is the hand you have entrusted to your future puppy in the hope that it will go well.

The hand of a breeder is the hand that is ready day and night to answer all your questions if you have any questions about anything.
For all these and many other things, the next time you shake a breeder’s hand, think of everything that hand has done with love.

1966 IRISH SETTER CLUB OF VICTORIA 5th CHAMPIONSHIP SHOW

BEST EXHIBIT IN SHOW

AUST CH GOODWIN GAIETY

BEST OPPOSITE SEX IN SHOW

AUST CH DUNLAOGHAIRE WODAN

💚💚💚💚💚

LOVE this description of the Irish Setter…

… the Irish setter, that wild, lovely, racing and chasing rapscallion, whose sins of far-ranging we always forgive for the sake of his beauty of action and speed of movement. The poise and suggestion of instant, controlled movement …

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