I Speak for my Dog

I speak for my dog.

His voice has a loopy, uneducated sound.

It amuses me to think he would talk like this.

His comments on life limited to food and walks,

If he just could form the words.

When I take a moment to really see him,

His eyes appear sharp and wise,

Sympathetic to my plight:

I’m just a “two-legger”.

He probably has a clipped, British accent:

 “A chew bone, please. Do make it fun”.

“There’s a good lad”, he states with his tail

As I fetch him another chew.

If only I could be him.

His howl beckons others

To echo his call.

His trust in me is complete.

He knows no war

Nor the endless, savage drive

To be better than another

For the sake of promotion or ego.

He finds that getting belly-rubs is

The best way to relax humans

As we don’t seem to know any better.

I hug him sometimes

Because I don’t know what else to do.

I lose sight of important things

And feel small.

Trapped in a kennel of my own design.

 “What’s all this, now?”

He asks by putting his head on my lap,

“It’s going to be alright. Now there’s a good lad”.