the poetrysheet

whimsy, subversion, bowling

Number 471, Feb. March 3, 2004

Claribel Alegría (1924- )

 


"I cackled out like a chicken, with the wild laughter of strain; it did feel extraordinarily funny to be so cursed just as I had been pluming myself on having bettered the apparently hopeless."

—T.E. Lawrence (1888-1935), The Seven Pillars of Wisdom


 

Rabid hatred

By Rev. David DeChant

 

I’m sick of all the racism and elitism that surrounds me. I’m speaking, of course, about my two dogs, Nigel and Devo.

 

I want them to defend my home and family from potentially dangerous people, not my neighbors and friends. But they even bark at the neighbors we share a backyard with if they happen to have the audacity to cross my front gate.

 

The list of people and things they hate is embarrassing: Latinos, Whites who smell funny, Blacks with kids, anyone with a dog, the mailman, bikes, all children, roller blades, scooters, and more. When they bark at passersby, I’m happy they are guarding the house—as dogs will do—but the level of intensity is primitive and ridiculous when another dog is present or when other mysterious criteria are met.

 

When out on a leash, however, my dogs love everyone (provided they pass the butt-smell test).

 

There are two really disturbing elements to their madness. First, I swear I haven’t influenced them in their hatred. I happily wave to everyone with genuine cheer. I humor the homeless and apologize to everyone for my dog’s bad behavior all the time.

 

The second disturbing thing about all this is that my dogs themselves belong to a minority group. As many of you might know, my dogs are gay. Oh yeah, it is no secret.

 

My dogs are way gay—not just prison gay, for lack of women gay—but full-blown canine homosexuals. In fact, Devo gets angry and barks at passersby, Nigel seizes the distraction and dry-humps Devo like a rabbit.

 

“He can’t even reach her and he is pumping like a machine,” the mailman once said.”

 

“They are both boys,” I said.

 

The mailman’s eyes widened and he covered his mouth to stifle a scream.

 

“That’s right,” I said defensively. “They’re lovers and since when is love horrible?”

 

The mailman handed me my mail and wandered away as if he’d seen a ghost—a really gay ghost.

 

At first I thought Devo was merely a victim of Nigel’s domination needs and didn’t participate. Other soon evidence proved me wrong. Let’s just say Devo is especially clean, and licks Nigel for an inappropriate amount of time in areas and ways that are deemed homoerotic by, at least, the Supreme Court.

 

But I love them and I accept their choices. Both male dogs are neutered, so I don’t see any real problem with their lifestyle. Their prissy walk, and their stereotypical-queen, limp-wristed mannerisms—these are their crosses to bear. Other dogs may tease them and call them names, but I support and love them.

 

No amount of gayness, however, excuses their racism and hatred of others. Coming out of the closet should open their eyes toward others that may be persecuted or shunned. I’m working towards modifying that weakness in their characters—I discuss it with them each time I paint their nails or tie another salmon-colored ascot accessory.

 

The obvious lesson here for all of us is simple: You can’t teach an old gay dog to turn tricks, no…his butch is worse than his bite, wait…let weeping dogs cry…

 

What I’m trying to say is, it is okay to be gay in Cabbagetown, but at least judge not lest ye be judged.

 

Reverend David DeChant writes “The Deacon’s Beacon,” for The Cabbagetown Neighbor, and contributes a monthly column to the poetrysheet. As your humble servant, he is available for guidance and lactation consultation at 404-822-4290 or by E-mail at daviddechant@juno.com.

 


 

A small March

By Philip Miller

 

Who are you

with whom I

heel and toe

against stiff

wind, goose step

ping high, chin

pointed toward

new start, dead-

end who knows

whether, which

will settle

in: more hard

freeze or a

little green?

 


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