So there I was, trotting along a path in the woods the other day, when a lady coming the other way spotted me and exclaimed emphatically, and with apparent delight:
"Oh look! A proper dog!"
Later that evening, as I was pondering on what, exactly, she meant, the poetic muse struck...
The Proper Dog
A "proper dog" is what she said.
Implying I'm a normal chap,
And not some fancy, over-bred
Type, only fit for ladies' laps?
Was she admiring of my form,
My profile square yet neat?
In looks, do I perhaps conform
To Earth's canine elite?
Did she mean proper as in prim?
No surely, that can't be!
My wayward furcut's scarcely trim,
My manner's far too free.
Or was her emphasis on dog,
As in a proper, intact male?
Not so. I never saw her look
At this particular detail...
Maybe, like Gail, she as a child
Possessed a terrier on wheels,
And ever after, all the while
Held dogs like me as the ideal.
We'll never know, she passed on by,
Without conversing any more.
I like to think that in her eyes,
I just was perfect to the core!
