"Don't lick me with your poopy tongue!" I say.
You look at me.
All sloppy grin.
And you lick my shin. Again.
I sigh and we walk along.
Sidewalk jockeys
On a Tennessee late morning.
A girl and her dog.
When I imagined your life
There was just a plain tongue.
The sloppy grin.
And unadulterated licks.
On my chin and hand.
Not drool down my shin.
After a midday munch.
Snack ala another dog's haunch.
Bear hugs and paw shakes.
Most welcome.
Those puppy eyes of amber.
Tracking me.
Alert to my mood.
To my motion.
Wanting to please
My every whim with devotion.
I love you, goofy pup.
Past the hole in the wall.
Gnawed table and chairs.
Sarah's shoes.
Ferns.
Neighbor toys and flower pots.
My iPhone's demise.
Your random toothy carnage.
I did not foresee
Your nose.
Questing.
An unrelenting source
Of unexpected debauchery.
Up the skirts of ladies.
Sniffing at the forks
Of jeans and shorts and slacks.
But your golden ears.
Silk purses.
Friends to the fingers.
Thrown back
Like hair in the wind.
They gather my words.
You twist your puzzled head
Left, then right.
Your pros.
Heavier than your cons.
Like the weight
Of those logs you
Lug about the yard.
Jumping.
Sky bound.
Monkey-in-the-middle joy.
I am yours.
As James Herriot
The country vet.
To brush those canines.
To swab
Those bacteria-prone head flaps.
Trim your nails.
And brush that beating tail.
(I'M ACTUALLY CLEANING HIS EARS.)
Your room and board.
Check.
Healthcare -- HUGE check.
Unending friendship.
On cue belly rubs.
Car rides to Starbucks.
Walks to nowhere.
All yours.
But if ever you wonder.
"What could I do for you,
Dear Mistress?”
You do it.
On a continuous loop.
However, my one request.
If you decide to press?
"PLEASE DON'T EAT POOP!”
I PREFER TO CALL HIM "WELL LOVED!"
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