I’m an artist. At least that’s what James called me after I painted the carpet. You see, when I ran around outside in the fields and got dandelion pollen on my legs, I came inside and painted the rug with yellow stripes, streaks, angles, and curves. He called me an impressionist. Not only because of my artistic talents, but also because of the delightful impression I made (and still make, if I may be so bold) on people.
That was back in my nineteenth week. I have to admit that it appeared strange to me when James told me he didn’t like dandelions. I love the vibrancy from their golden flowers. At the time there were so few of them, while his garden (into which I am not allowed to step a single paw) had plenty of other yellow blossoms that didn’t interest me at all. None of them turned into magic fairy wands. Nor did their seeds explode into the air, twirling around in the wind.
Okay, so James claimed his yard was full of them, but I only saw a dozen or more. He called them weeds. Well, as everyone knows, a weed is simply a misplaced flower. (Credit for this expression goes to my cousin and James’ niece, Laura Tebbitt.) Regardless, I found them to my liking, especially when they became the enchanted puffballs. While I tried to gobble them down, James used his walking stick to whack at them.
Like dandelions do for me, I hope I bring pleasure into James’ life. He gave me a childhood of constant love and encouragement. (Score, multiple treats!) It’s true.
Well, around my nineteenth week I was beginning to sprout like a weed, or so James said. When I look at the pictures he took, I don’t see it. Do you?
Weed or not, dandelions are natures way of providing rays of sunshine on cloudy days. Their pollen is rather potent. It attaches to my hair, be it on my legs or elsewhere should I roll around on the ground. I don’t know why the bees and butterflies like it so much. When I try to lick it off, it doesn’t taste like butter, or honey for that matter.
James says he doesn’t mind brushing it out of my hair. I do laugh when the pollen is simply spread across my paws into a lighter shade. It’s either that or because my paws are ticklish.
Like butterflies and shoelaces, James wrote a poem about my interaction with dandelions. At the time he wrote it, I didn’t understand what he meant at the end of it. Now I do.
Here’s that poem. I hope you enjoy reading it.
bright yellow attracts your attention
as the late summer’s rustic oracles
populate the yard and meadow
you run around them
turning your white slipper paws
the color of a vibrant sunrise
the radiance is licked off
as each day passes
until there is no more to absorb
puffs of powdery amulets materialize
magnetizing your curiosity
appearing to request you play with them
snatching these blow balls with your mouth
you want to carry them away
or swallow whole
puff – they disappear
as if the grass fairies
waved their magic wands
by your nineteenth week
long gone are the parachuting seeds
and the only thing sprouting is you
yet in the spring
they will return in abundance
as will you
my Old English Sheepdog pup
Being older and wiser has its advantages. Still, it was so much fun when those fairy-wand puffballs were larger than my nose. I thought they would taste like cotton candy. (Okay, so that’s what James thought I thought. I’ve never had cotton candy in my life.) The thing is, they tasted like dust. So, of course, after trying a few, I gave up eating them.
Now the green leaves, those are a different matter. While they don’t taste as good as the grass growing in the hay fields, they are tasty when they first arrive in the spring. James says they add a kick to a spring salad. Being older and wiser, I know that I don’t want anyone kicking me, especially when I’m eating.
Come back in two weeks and I’ll disclose how I feel about rain. Not that it’s a secret. Only I’m covering one topic at a time. Oh, yeah, and James wrote another poem about rain and me. He said I could share it with you.
We hope you’re enjoying reading all the different poems James wrote during my first year. Let us know your opinion in the comment section below. I always like to hear from you, so please feel free to leave me a note about this or anything else that’s on your mind.
Until next time,
Sir Oliver of Skygate Farm (you can call me Ollie)