In the mornings, she fancies 
A brisk walk in the ivy, low to the ground. 
Her footprints staying hidden by the carpeted mat 
As she daintily chooses each step. 
She then sniffs along a cement path that curves 
Around front stoops to a fence in the back… 
Where she can see everything going on down below. 
The path along the fence opens up to a cul-de-sac 
That she crosses in a graceful trot. 
She hops over rubber plants and carefully 
Enters the forbidden rose garden 
That is filled with dew-soaked, yet fragrant pink pedals. 
As she weaves between the flowery bushes 
She warily avoids thorny branches and combs the woodchips 
With her snout to discover an unknown scent. 

In the afternoons, she is game for a three mile trot 
That stretches her legs and fills her tummy 
With an abundance of fresh air. 
As she walks down the street, 
On sidewalks and bike lanes, 
Her head is tilted up to the cement walls: 
Her ears smooth back into Full-Stealth-Mode 
As she becomes a cunning con contemplating 
A leap to the other side. 
So light on her feet, she slips past houses 
With dogs in backyards and none of them the wiser. 
She dislikes pine needles immensely 
And prefers a jagged weave around each pile 
To prevent crunching them with her matted paws. 
One wrong step and her lovely gait 
Transforms into a three-legged hobble 
As her foot is stung by a thorn hiding amongst needles. 

In the evenings, she wrestles, nipping fingers, 
Swinging rope-toy, looking for constant attention. 
Get her riled up and the crazy-switch 
Clicks <<ON>> scoot – scoot – scoot 
On couches and coffee tables, from bed to bed, 
Then on the floor with tail straight in the air 
And paws stretched out in front as she is ready-to-pounce. 
Her tongue hangs out of her mouth and to the side, 
With eyes wild and waiting for you to make the next move. 

After dinner, she lounges on couches 
Resembling nothing at all that is disastrous or destructive. 
While lying on her back, tucked in between 
Cushions and pillows, she drifts off to sleep 
With paws dangling above her and toes fluttering… 
The product of puppy dreams.

This entry was posted on Friday, September 16th, 2005 at 5:00 am and is filed under Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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