• John M. Campbell

This Dog Don't Hunt

I wrote this poem in frustration. At the time I was managing a team who installed a new system that ran 24-hours-a-day. The system was built in Virginia and delivered to Colorado where we maintained and operated it. The manager in Virginia was my boss, and he required every decision to be passed by him before I implemented it. Of course, he had his own demands on his time, so my calls and emails asking for his approval often went unanswered. The result is this poem, which I shared with my family, but nobody at work. Every person who worked on a short leash for a micromanaging boss can relate.

This Dog Don’t Hunt

The autumn dawn paints the morning mists red.

The hunting dog, flanks aquiver, pure bred

For seeking prey, trained to flush the game bird

Within the deep brush, awaits the key word.

The master’s boots shine and never touch mud.

He wears a tweed coat with leather gun patch

That’s never known dirt, or drop of dog’s blood,

From tending snouts cut by nasty thorn thatch.

The other dogs seek the source of fresh scents:

They bound through tall grass beyond the stone fence.

A pheasant takes flight, the hunter takes aim,

A crack of gunfire, his dog retrieves game.

Tails wagging with pride, they bring in each prize.

Their owners voice praise, delight fills their eyes.

Observing this scene, a whine of regret

Escapes from this dog for not having yet

Fulfilled its true role as hunter’s retriever.

A yank on the leash to counter this fever

Elicits a yelp of pain and confusion.

The dog is entrapped by his master’s delusion.

The hunting dog lies with head on its paws,

Enduring rebukes for uncertain flaws,

And wistfully gazes at fields of high grass.

Its master knows naught but bluster and brass.

John M. Campbell


22 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

I wrote this poem to commemorate the graduation of my daughter, Sarah, from the University of Illinois. She earned two bachelor's degrees, one in Biology and one in Psychology, certainly an achievemen

This poem is a tribute to Vince Daquag, a tennis player I knew with a ferocious forehand and an ebullient disposition. He was a much-beloved middle-school teacher who died of a heart attack in his ear

I spent most of my career in engineering with a company called TRW, Inc. before it was gobbled up by Northrop Grumman (pun intended). People often asked us employees what TRW stood for, so instead of