Dead fish dog

• Jesse Webb-smith, Grade 6
• Poetry
• 2006

Only the leash jingling
sucks her from sprawled sleep on the garden chair.
She dashes over precious plant pots
to wait by the car,
breathless with anticipation .

She sits with nose pressed firmly
against the windscreen,
bottom wedged against the gears
until Mum reminds her of her manners.

She yawns,
pinning her ears back,
letting the yawn quiver through her whole body.
Ears pricked,
nose dribbling,
she trembles from imagined delights
while the car nestles into the deserted winter car park.

At last she bounds off
chasing endless seagulls,
bouncing over frothy waves,
rolling in dead fish blowie,
biting the bottom of my rolled up jeans.

Back in the car,
loud complaints of her dead fish smell,
push her from lap to lap,
where she lets elastic drools
bounce off sandy black lined lips.

Home again
she trots around the garden
bone clasped in jaw,
considering plot pants as secret spots.
Then back to the garden chair,
fast asleep with feet paddling
as she keeps alive precious images
of our daily trip to the beach.