Hot Dog

Hot Dog

 

He’s lying in another sunlit ground pool.

His stiff old joints are soothed by warming rays;

Bum in the sun and muzzle in the shadows;

His favourite way to punctuate his days.

 

Because he’s black, the heat is quickly taken,

And time to sunbathe must be carefully paced

With alternation between bright and darkness.

Bake one side nicely, then retreat with haste.

 

Well, I say ‘haste’. But everything’s an amble,

An amble and a well-positioned flop.

But sometimes he just dozes off for ages,

And I step in to say, ‘It’s time to stop.’

 

And so he creeps indoors; reluctant canine.

Why can’t I understand? His needs are few.

Tomorrow he’ll be back out in the sunshine.

‘These humans! Clueless! What’s a dog to do?’

 

©Ruth Twyman Lockyer August 2013