A Bulldog Poem – Conversations with the Pack

Posted on by H.J. Hill

I am Doodlebug, King of the Olde English Bulldogges.

Sweetie: I have made up a poem.

Me: “Made up” seems to be your new favorite phrase.

Doodlebug: Remind me. What is a poem?

Sweetie: Words humans string together that sound the same. Like this: Run, run, run. Fun, fun, fun. Bun, bun, bun. Blah, blah, blah.

Doodlebug: It doesn’t make sense.

Sweetie: What does sense have to do with it?

MoonCat: Ah, the bulldog’s motto for life.

©️ 2025. H.J. Hill. All Rights Reserved.

The Deep Well at the End of the Earth – Conversations with the Pack

Posted on by H.J. Hill

I am Doodlebug, King of the Olde English Bulldogges.

Sweetie: There sits the deep well. It is full of water. Beyond that is the end of the earth.

Me: I beg your pardon?

Sweetie: Hear it moan under its load.

Me: That’s because it’s a washing machine.

Doodlebug: It is moaning though.

Me: It’s a loud washing machine. Nice of you to wax poetic about it, Sweetie. That makes doing the wash seem special.

MoonCat: Beyond the moaning machine lays the land of cat quietude where is posted in shining words: No Bulldogs Allowed!

©️ 2025. H.J. Hill. All Rights Reserved.