“Ode to a Waitahora cross” – a farmer’s view (Author: Sandy Anderson)
The locals were flummoxed
As they pondered the spots
Where the black joins the tan
But a name they could not
Give to the critters so haughty.
Then one brave fellow of farming descent
Put on his bi-focals with best of intent
A silence ensued of five minutes duration
But his face remained full of consternation.
So, finally, bravely and boldly enquiring
“If these pups are for buying….”
He swallowed and proceeded to say…
“I am quite at a loss
Is this breed a cross?
If so, does bark and obey?”
“Does it work? Will it wait?
Will it spring over gates?
And a thought springs to mind
Will it get in behind?”
He urged – “Enlighten me please.”
Without rancour or wrath
but with aplomb and with ease
I replied, tongue in cheek
As you please – “It will do all those things
right down to the letter. You see
It’s a Gordon – the SETTER that’s BETTER”
MacTAVISH” (alias Angus or CH Black Watch Loch Rannoch)
Inspired by another visit to the Dannevirke country side: Author: Sandy Anderson
Ev’rybody knows Angus, of Gaelic descent
More recently Weblyn establishment
He’s a Gordon, a setter
right down to the letter
and fancies himself as a game-bird go-getter.
You see Angus is game, but the birds – well
That they’re chooks no one has explained.
With an over zealous hunting keenness,
Angus harbours certain meanness
For “Rhode Island Reds”
With a quizzical stare – it just isn’t fair
As he eyes them from the ground –
But they take to the rafters
and stay there till after
Angus departs their surrounds!
Now his vocal gymnastics,
Little short of fantastic
I’m sure you’re all aware,
Endear him to none
In the morning at one,
When a solo rendition
From a black apparition does not delight,
Slumbering mortals assuming their right
to sleep, undisturbed in the black of night.
Now his Golden companions, so normally calm
In such circumstances, help raise the alarm…
In frenzied voice and fevered pitch
MacTavish leads the choir
The situation must surely be
Torches flashing, we go crashing,
Out to where the kennels stand
There, brown eyes innocently look towards
The baritone of the band
Who by now has retreated,
And is back inside his box,
“Change my magazine – I’m bored”
Those watery eyes implored!
Angus, Angus, when such things occur,
On your triennial visit
(We harbour thoughts unkind)
We see your head so regal
And your coat so full of shine,
And we consider for a minute
Just how you’d look,
Without your body in it.
Who needs a tiger from Bengal?
When we have an Angus on the wall!
But Angus you’re really quite an aristocratic brute
Such a pity that your manners don’t all together suit.
With a tale of destruction left in your wake,
Angus, your tail it’s mark it does make.
Sweeper of coffee tables ornamented with cups
“Angus, no Angus don’t put your paws up!!!”
We much prefer you out of doors,
Where wrecking havoc your ginormous paws
Can gallop in distance, a three minute mile.
Ears flying, tongue lolling,
Angus – such style.
With that kind of pace,
Will there be enough space?
Angus – too late!!
It’s a thing called a gate!
For a dog such as you,
Gates are NOT for leaping through
As the lean and hungry farm dogs do –
You’ll damage more than your reputation
In such an awkward situation.
But in sleep, in repose
In dormant position
A dream, a wish has come to fruition
“Let sleeping dogs lie” is the adage to test
For an Angus at rest is the thing we love best!