No pedigree pomp,
no polished leash-pageant airs—
just dirt underfoot
and the scent of squirrel in the wind.
The Feist doesn’t bark to talk.
It barks to warn,
to chase,
to climb a tree with its voice
before its paws can follow.
Small enough to tuck under your arm,
but you'd need both hands
to hold its wild heart.
Its tail is a metronome for urgency,
ticking toward the next rustle.
Eyes like shotguns—
aimed and locked.
It doesn’t wait for orders.
It listens to instinct
and to the rustle behind the brush pile.
Somewhere in a backwoods holler,
a Feist zigzags across roots and memory,
hunting things we’ve long forgotten
how to chase.
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Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: May 5th, 2026 06:45
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem is about the feist, small hunting dog descended from the terriers brought over to the United States by British miners and other immigrants. For more context visit https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feist_(dog_breed)
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
- In collections: Man's Best Friend.
Offline)
Comments2
A tribute to a breed that I was not familiar with. Nicely written Matthew
Matthew, I love that image of the tail as a metronome…it really stuck with me. It’s such a sharp and creative way to capture urgency and motion. Strong piece, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
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