🐴Introducing: Sunday Stanza 🌾

By DocBott

Every Sunday, I’ll be posting a short poem—a “Sunday Stanza”—straight from the clinic, the backcountry, or the belly of a bovine.

Some will be funny, some will be thoughtful, and a few might just smell faintly of iodine and alfalfa.

It’s poetry with manure on its boots and a heart full of haydust. One stanza at a time. Every Sunday.

Because sometimes, a good poem can patch a tough week better than duct tape and vet wrap.

Here is the inaugural edition. 

Don’t Worry, Doc—He Won’t Bite

 

“Don’t worry, Doc—he won’t bite,” she lied,

While the dog gave a side-glance, wild and wide.

His lip gave a quiver, his ears pulled tight—

If trust was a gamble, I lost that fight.

 

We were just doin’ shots—routine and quick,

No drama, no fuss, no parvo to lick.

But as I reached down, calm and polite,

The beast transformed in a blaze of spite.

 

He launched like a rocket from a couch-cushion den,

A fury of fangs in a six-pound of flesh eating skin.

His jaws clamped tight on my innocent hand,

And I learned immediately where liars stand.

 

“IATROGENIC,” the textbooks state—

A fancy word for “you sealed your own fate.”

‘Cause I gave the shot, I caused the pain,

So the mutt took my flesh like a runaway train.

 

Blood gushed forth as I gasped in surprise,

Staring down at my fingers with widening eyes.

She sipped on her soda and gave a small blink—

“Guess he did bite the last one… now that I think.”

 

Well, ma’am, that would’ve been nice to know

Before Cujo decided to go full Rambo.

But I smiled through the crimson and held back my spite,

Nodding like, “Sure… he’s not going to bite.”

 

So here’s a heads-up from a vet who knows—

When a client insists, “He’s fine”—compose.

Your farewell speech to your unchewed digits,

’Cause odds are good you’re about to need stitches.

#SundayStanza #DocBottWrites #PoetryFromThePrairie #VetLifeVerses