The Australian Cattle Dog with its dingo ancestry will deal with a snake instinctively.
Darcy is a dog's dog. A god's dog. A dog's god.
Darcy is a god's dog, Le Roi Chien.
Mongrel of mongrels. Sniffer of sniffers.
Barker of barkers. Wagger of waggers.
A dog to break the back
of the red bellied black.
The line is drawn by the dog that is Darce
An old testament dog, in black and white
in bone crunching recrimination
for transgression and/or
no boutique dapper yapper like you'd see
in a snappy North shore latte cafe
no perfumed manicured accessory
perched on a lap for perfect display
of perfumed manicured accessories
The line that was drawn by the god Darsay
was not seen by the fat red bellied black
who lay in the sun by the side of the track
who thawed himself from winter's chill
whose tale was as old as the will
which binds us.
Yea though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death I shall fear no evil and
Darcy shook the serpent surely in the
jaws of retribution its belly swashing
brilliant red in blue morning light.
I yelled no no, but to no avail and
its dying now lives in history
the writhing moments of leaching life
inscribed upon on this Friday sun.
And I wonder if god in his prescription
of breaking world in a perfumed garden
with Eve and Adam in blush beauty born
had Darcy rolling on Eden's sweet lawn
I wonder if Darce while sniffing and snuffling
at Eden's pert pores like this doggy does
had spotted a tail, a Tempter's tail
would the tale have been better
for each one of us?