The Puppy

By G. E. Shuman



It’s the break of dawn, and if that’s not enough,
I’m out on the lawn, with a small pile of fluff.
He’s a cute little puppy, and belongs to my spouse,
(Who happens to be quite asleep… in the house.)

But I’m up anyway, getting ready for work,
So I stand in wet grass, feeling like such a jerk.
I’d demanded, when she, longed to bring home her ‘Teddy’,
That she ask of herself, if she, truly, was ready,

To care for the thing, and to clean up his ‘doings’.
To trot him outside, for his peeings and pooings.
But now here I stand, in the dew and the dawning,
As this brown ball of fluff, does his stretching and yawning.

I wait, feeling stupid; just looking to see,
As he sniffs and he snorts, if he’ll actually pee.
And to get the whole ‘scoop’, these late-summer dog days,
If he’ll consent to poop, (which requires great praise.)

I have nicknamed him ‘Clock-wise’: a term of affection,
As the poor fluffy thing spins in just one direction,
When he chases his tail, or some sight, or some sound,
And flips, flops, and falls, from his twirling around.

Like some slight ballerina, or a little girl’s toy;
If he only spoke English, I’d tell him, he’s a BOY.
But Teddy knows not that he weighs but three pounds.
In his own tiny eyes, he’s a brave, fearless hound.

He will growl at just nothing; this small thing, and so hairy.
You can tell by his barks that he longs to be scary.
It’s a battle he fights, on this lawn, in the fog.
His tough stance tells the world, he ‘wants’ to be a dog.

Now I take him back in, to his toys and his house,
And I understand, some, what he means to my spouse,

Who will try all the day to housebreak her new pet;
The cutest hairball we have ever met.