The ritual of our morning dictates first
The dogs be taken out to roam the yard
To “do their stuff” and get themselves immersed
In chasing squirrels, with whom they’ve always sparred.
The dogs will bark; the squirrels will nag and bray
From half-way up the trunk of an oak tree,
Taunting the mutts who hold them all at bay:
It’s hard so say whose is the greater glee.
Eventually, the ruckus will subside
And, hoping to be fed, the dogs come in,
Each with an adventure to confide
But happy to be done with all that din.
The next thing to look forward to’s a walk
With other hapless critters they can stalk.