I dreamt our little dog began to speak,
Which she does even now, except in words,
For she’s demonstrative and hardly meek,
Which she makes clear by daily rousting birds
And squirrels in our backyard when I toss out
Handfuls of nuts to feed that hungry crowd,
Whom vociferous, fierce Tiggy puts to rout.
And even in her softer, sweeter moods,
Cuddled beside me as I sit and write,
I’m sure she dreams of further interludes
That mannered folk would deem as impolite.
And yet, for all her loud shenanigans,
She has her spellbound coterie of fans.