A dog named Pierre once upon a time
was a pure-bred poodle, but cast
outdoors on a ranch, his hair grew
into rat packs, baked in mud,
where cockleburs and beggar’s lice
will hide until he dies. Even fleas
will never find his skin, those clumps
of fur surpass pesticides as perverse
defense mechanisms. Banished
from all shelter but the porch, he hears
every tangled word of the couple
inside, their barks of argument;
He longs to cheer them up with clever
tricks, to be let in to wag away their tête-à-tête.
He sees his chance and rushes through a door
held open a crack; they chase him, and he races
underfoot. Too excited, he wets his trail
across the shag carpet. Their laughter growls;
he yelps and yipes, and tossed back
onto the range, he dances the can-can
among the hooves of a herd of cattle,
one close shave after another.
-Anita J. Stoner
