Ida Red, one half of the museum mascot team, has decided that she needs to contribute more to the ROMP mission. Thus, she will occasionally make a post on this blog. Though she is a redbone coonhound, she does not hunt so much as she . . . waddles around on the land and hogs the golf cart. She needs to at least exercise her mental and creative faculties, so in her first blog, she would like some help in writing a poem:
RRRRRuff! RRRRRRuff! RRRRRRRuk uk uk uh uh . . . Pardon me, got a bark caught in my throat. It’s getting cold out here in the sticks. Anyone got some kibble? Yeah I know I just ate. Hey, it’s a-gettin’ close to winter, no? A dog biscuit? Hello??? Anyone out there? I am hunnnnnnnnngry! Sorry, so sorry: Back to the blog. Let’s write a poem!
The leaves are in my way and sticking in my paws and the acorns are the shits, just sayin. It’s getting that time of year! Now, we’re going to make a poem–you and me and a bunch of other people if I can get them to . . . what’s that you say, you got a biscuit? Peanut butter or basted flavor? Is it—okay, okay, back to the task. Add a line or phrase down there in that Comments section. Anything about what’s going on in the weather and this old sloppy beautiful irritating mess of nature out there around you.
Let’s see what we can make: I’ll start! You join in and now really I like the peanut butter flavor biscuits the best. They sell them in 5 pound bags at Tractor Supply and if you . . . okay, okay. Comment below, humans! (You can get your dogs to comment, too, you know . . . and they will loan me some of their kibble, no???)
UPDATED!!!!! Here is our first group poem effort. I thank you kindly, humans and dog helpers. I shall title it:
Dogs in Fall
The pasture is turning a dull brown, unlike my brilliant red.
Peanut butter biscuits cause rhymes to leave my head.
We’re doing the emergency dance in quick-step trots and twirls
In tune with the desperate yip and whine song.
Dad slept in, and we must get to the yard.
The wheat’s so high, waving in the wind.
I could hide from Shaun, but then Clifford would eat my biscuit.
We black saps have been watching our humans
–Jerry and Roxann–stringing lights, piling wulf
–we mean wood–and stacking food up high on a table.
Can’t reach it! Sorry humans!
Crunchy leaves, acorns nibbled on by the enemy squirrels,
new smells to follow with my nose, shivery cold.
–Ida Red and Friends