The night was calm, the air was sweet,
The rain had stopped, the moon was high,
The small dog lay outside the door
To watch the stars play in the sky.
“Okay, small dog, it’s bedtime now,
You must come in, I’ll lock the door.”
Reluctantly she made a move
And came into the warm once more.
A puzzled frown upon her face…
A shake of head, a flap of ear…
She seemed perplexed and looked around,
She wasn’t happy, that was clear.
“What is it, girl? Not poorly ears?”
The ears in question dropped, she’d heard,
Crawled on the sofa, curled up tight,
For ‘ears’ is a four-letter word.
I cuddled her instead a while,
But now and then she’d shake and twitch.
So, getting quite concerned, I asked,
“What is it, girl, that makes you itch?”
She did not answer, just got up
And vigorously shook her head,
Then with a smiling sigh, she left
To curl up, happy, in her bed.
It was quite late, I took the hint,
And barefoot stood upon the rug,
I wondered what her problem was,
Looked down and thought, “Is that a bug?”
It wriggled… all twelve inches long…
I watched it writhe, contort and squirm…
While laid out on the patio
She’d obviously ‘caught’ a worm!
Now me and worms do not get on,
I do not mind them in the earth,
But writhing on my rug at night?
Of such a length and such a girth?
I grabbed my slippers, double-quick,
Then made the kitchen in a rush,
Returning to evict the thing,
By wielding dustpan and the brush.
The dog looked on, I heaved a sigh,
“O writer, please, would you confirm,”
The small dog said, with eyes alight,
“Did I just have my first ‘earworm’?”