I've dug too deep and a reckless fork

has struck guts and gore

with a piercing hiss:

the smothering stink of dog remains.

I quickly cover forgotten cadaver

but memory has caught the odour

and tugs me along once again:

a guide-dog for the blind rejected

for showing fear when near to traffic,

a discomposing habit

of staring at the heavens.

Neither trait was prominent

when licking and lolloping

her way into all affections but mine.

I was convinced she feigned incompetence

in search of role satisfaction:

the comfy basket and chocolate biscuit,

the leisurely stroll and roll in sheep- shit.

My missus said that was rubbish,

recalled the time when I purported

to be fond of dogs myself -

so as to scratch an infatuation.

It's an unflattering comparison;

I was starstruck in those days,

hadn't learnt to avert eyes from the skies

to avoid stepping in dog-shit.

When will I ever stop digging?