In Competition No. 2910 you were invited to submit a poem by a pet who is cheesed off with its owner.

The contempt in Basil Ransome-Davies’s closing couplet, written from the perspective of a bolshie moggy, was echoed throughout the entry by a hacked-off parade of bullied, misunderstood and condescended-to pets:

He wants affection, he can kiss a duck.
It’s what my mother told me: bipeds suck.

I especially liked Sylvia Fairley’s homicidal preying mantis and Bill Greenwell’s scheming goldfish. Equally impressive were Hugh King, John Priestland, George Tetley, John-Paul Marney and Dave East, who were unlucky to miss out on a place in the winning line-up.

Those entries printed below earn their authors £25 apiece. This week’s top dog is Martin Parker. He gets £30.
 

I’m a goldfish who’s dejected
that my habitat’s infected
and is neither fit to swim in nor to drink.
And I think my owner oughta
come and change my stagnant water
which is so full of detritus
that I’m blinded and I might as
well be swimming round in pea soup or in ink.
 
For it’s hard to find my way round
in my pitch-black piscine playground
without damage from the mini clockwork shark
and the sharply-pointed anchor
plus the jagged plastic tanker,
and — enough to make you clench your
cheeks — my owner’s upper denture
glowing ghostly phosphorescent in the dark.
Martin Parker
 
I’ve few complaints, for goodness sake,
For you know how to treat a snake.
You keep me warm, you keep me fed,
And yet there’s something must be said:
Each day, all day, I lie here curled
And never see the wider world,
In which there are, or so I hear
Poor twerps whom I’d strike daft with fear —
Ophidophobes! I have this dream
In which folks tremble, gibber, scream
And scarper at the sight of me —
Oh I’d enjoy it, horribly,
Maybe in Waitrose checkout queue?
Now, wouldn’t that appeal to you?
I’m sure you see the sense of this.
Yours truly, Snakey. Kiss-kiss. Hiss.
George Simmers
 
The canine nose disdains the rose,
Preferring doggy-do.
Forget Dior — we dogs adore
The scent of pee and poo.
 
And when I’ve found a steaming mound,
A sausage or a pellet,
A stick or hoop of fragrant poop,
I have to stop and smell it.
 
I gladly greet a bitch in heat
By sniffing her behind;
In street or park, I leave my mark
Where other dogs have signed.
 
Each cherished pong deserves a song,
A symphony of pets.
But there’s one smell that’s nasal hell —
My master’s cigarettes!
Brian Allgar
 
He tells me ‘sit!’ and fetch!’ and ‘heel!’
His orders drive me barmy.
This life is hell, I might as well
Be in the bloody army.
 
It makes no difference how I feel.
I’m only a Dalmatian.
He’s Captain Jack, he leads the pack
In his imagination.
 
I hardly get to sniff a bum
Before he jerks my collar.
I want to rut, it’s natural, but
‘Behave yourself!’ he’ll holler.
 
A dog can dream, and dreams that come
When all the world is sleeping
Show blood that drains from severed veins
And someone’s widow weeping.
G.M. Davis
 
You let me out to fly around each day;
I’ve read the headlines in the Telegraph,
yet when you talk the only thing you say
is ‘Who’s a pretty boy?’ Don’t make me laugh.
It’s time you realised I have a brain
(OK, it is a bird one and it’s small);
if I hear ‘Who’s a pretty boy?’ again
I’ll shit on your new sofa. That’s not all —
I’ll start to peck your velvet curtains too;
they won’t look half as posh with lots of holes.
I want to have a proper chat with you,
about the NHS, opinion polls,
or anything, it really doesn’t matter,
but please — no more inane, moronic chatter.
Jayne Osborn
 
I am an independent cat. I spurn
My lady’s constant need to stroke my tail.
I purr, of course; in doing so I earn
The finest cut of fish. I draw a veil
Over my dark sonatas in the night
Composed in secret pleasure. How she’d hate
To know what I have killed. The moron might
Stop my safaris past her garden gate.
I let her think that she has won affection
When I force myself to rest beside her hand;
And though I loathe our daily interaction
I just pretend her wish is my command.
How fortunate the feline fates have cast her
In the role of slave, with me her clever master.
Max Ross

No 2913: back to school

You are invited to submit an extract from the school report of a well-known author, living or dead but please specify. Please email entries (150 words maximum), wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 26 August.