"And

I Will Consider
The Yellow Dog"

Memories of Fergus
2005 - 2017
Photos by Steve Terry, Gill Terry,
Malcolm Terry
and Anne-Marieke Booij
Words by Fran Lock
There is no God in you, yellow dog. Your breath
is our daily quicksand;
... you juggle your legs into an avid heap.
You are bent on death.
... your nose like an antique brooch
 I will consider you, yellow dog,
as you twist in a rapt mechanical dream
 I will consider your coat, the color
of fenced gold; how you are your own
secular halo.
 I will consider your skull,
the narrow skull of a young gazelle
whose victory is leaping.
And I will consider your eyes,
their hazel light a gulp of fire
 I will consider your youth,
when we didn’t know
if you would saunter or quake;
 when we didn’t know if you
would prove savvy or giddy or both.
It was both
 Our silly delight
at each degree of more-than-human knowing.
 I will consider you, yellow dog,
your pale moods and your gazing;
 your fidgets and your snoozes.
And lately you are wiser
than all zero.
 Dear dog, creaking like a haunted house,
I will consider you, from bucking young ’un to patient
as settling porter;
 I will consider
your narrow self, aslant against
my chest in grief, in grieving, overwhelmed, when you
were the busy broom that swept the pieces of me
together.
 Yes, I will consider the yellow dog,
his bestowing snout in the chill a.m.;
his royal cheek and his dances.
A yellow dog comes only once and is hisself:
brilliant, final, and entire.
 And I will consider the yellow dog

by Fran Lock

And Smart saw God concentric in his cat.

Smart’s cat, artificing faith from cyclone

volition. There is no God in you, yellow

dog. Your breath is our daily quicksand;

you juggle your legs into an avid heap.

You are bent on death. There is no God

in you. You are imperfect and critterly.

I will consider you, for all of that. Today,

as you joust farewell to the park; the pack

in their garrison palsy, tails agog, and you,

cocking your head to cup Madam’s strewn

bark, your nose like an antique brooch

in the sun. I will consider you, yellow dog,

as you twist in a rapt mechanical dream.

I will consider your coat, the color

of fenced gold; how you are your own

secular halo. I will consider your skull,

the narrow skull of a young gazelle

whose victory is leaping. And I will

consider your eyes, their hazel light

a gulp of fire, those firewater eyes,

holding now a numb depth down,

and milkier flickering monthly. I will

consider your youth, when we didn’t

know if you would saunter or quake;

when we didn’t know if you

would prove savvy or giddy or both.

It was both. Our frank amaze at your hardy

smarts! Our silly delight at each degree

of more-than-human knowing. I will

consider you, yellow dog, your pale

moods and your gazing; your fidgets

and your snoozes. There is no God in you,

the deep-time of a dog year is enough.

And lately you are wiser than all zero.

Dear dog, creaking like a haunted house,

I will consider you, from bucking young

’un to patient as settling porter; how you

held the pack when Fat Man was small

and a zoomy nuisance of wriggling. I will

consider your narrow self, aslant against

my chest in grief, in grieving, overwhelmed,

when you were the busy broom that swept

the pieces of me together. Yes, I will

consider the yellow dog, his bestowing

snout in the chill a.m.; his royal cheek

and his dances. A yellow dog comes only

once and is hisself: brilliant, final, and entire.



Fran Lock is a sometime itinerant dog whisperer,

activist, writer and illustrator, and one of the finest
political poets writing in Britain today.

Her poem “And I will consider the yellow dog”

is modelled on Christopher Smart’s poem
“Jubilate Agno”which contains the popular section
"For I will consider my cat Jeoffry.”

Like Lock, Smart spent time as an inpatient

in a psychiatric hospital.
Smart’s institution was liberal
and he was allowed pen and paper,
a garden in which to work, privacy, social visits
—and the company of his cat.