I know my dog’s secrets; she harbors a few, And I offer, in advance, my apologies to you. You see, my own lawn is pristine, lush, and green, Without a single “deposit” to be heard of or seen. I suspect that you’ve found them—those gifts left behind— And as they are hers, they are technically mine.
She’s tiny, you know, and she moves like a ghost, From the bottom of purses to a fine Sunday roast. She’s stealthy and silent, a witness to all, Watching through windows as the morning dew falls; While you stand with your coffee, she’s there in the deeps, Observing the privacy of man.
When she returns home and paws at the door, I don’t dare to ask what she’s seen anymore. Since our lot has no fence, she’s free to go peep, And the privilege of cuteness is a secret she’ll keep. For she’s small and she’s sweet, with a face that beguiles, So she’ll nip at your ankles and still earn your smiles.
She scuttles ’neath fences to steal the cat’s bowl, With the heart of a hunter and a gluttonous soul. She emerges quite smug, having finally been fed, With a “bumm” that is now vastly bigger than her head.
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