I leave my dog curled up in bed,
I say goodnight and stroke her head.
The bed she’s carried to the hall
To guard my door (and guard her ball)
So all night long, I’ll know she’s there
And I can sleep without a care.
All sweet and good, I hear you say,
But when I rise at break of day
There is no Ani in her bed
She’s in the living room instead.
No longer does she guard my door…
My sofa cushions, on the floor,
All rearranged and neatly placed
With elegantly chosen taste,
Are now a nest for canine dreams
Where she can hatch her cunning schemes.
And every morning, it’s the same,
Perhaps it is some kind of game?
“Oh no, dear writer”, says the dog,
“I guard the garden from the fog,
From foxes, mice and other things
And guard the little bird that brings
The sun from over yonder hill
To light the golden daffodil.”
And with such limpid eloquence
And eyes that speak of innocence
There isn’t much left I can say
So once again, she wins the day.