Smiggy And Me

Smiggy the black and white Jack Russell
barked excitedly, his tiny paws lifting off the ground
each time his jaws snapped together.

The blackberries lay bruised and bleeding juice
over the pavement.
My Robertson’s jam jar was smashed to smithereens
yet the label remained intact
and the golliwog’s grin undiminished mocked me
from its resting place among the shards.

By this time Smiggy had stopped yapping,
his pink tongue lolled between black lips,
he looked pleased with the chaos he had caused.
I stared at the bloody gaping wound
on my knee and screamed out my agony.

Knee bathed and elastoplasted
I was taken to see Dr Redmond.
He of the Johnny Walker whiskey breath
and seven-o-clock shadow chin.

Each bump and jolt of the Midland Red Bus
jarred my knee and squeezed out yet another
sob from my miserable little mouth
as I felt the cat gut pull
and the antiseptic sting my flesh.

A tenderly meant wipe of a scratchy hankie,
moistened with mummy spit
mopped up self pitying teardrops
from smudged and grubby cheeks;
a rustle of paper,
and an orange flavoured Spangle was
popped into my mouth to
lift its corners, as well as my spirits.

Slowly light dawned, if I played my cards right
Grandma would share her Horlicks
With me tonight.