That little hairball of a dog is down
at the end of the drive again measuring
the frontage with little hairball dogsteps;
Pacing off what he wants me thinking’s his,
and making pretty damn sure I know.
Like a Churchill he plants his front legs
wide and pushes his pushed in face across
the crack where street meets drive down by
the mailbox; his favorite spot by far
for a territory marking squirt of
canine Mason-Dixon line solution.
Come May and daffodils show up he will
too, and do his best to kill every one.
But, I figure that’s the way of it. There’s
better spots for tulips, daffodils, bulbs
of one kind or another, around here
and I’ll make sure I find them, too, next year.
Took a lot of years fighting bigger dogs
than him over way smaller stuff than that
to realize some dogs are dumber than snot.
Some fights are worth having and some fights ain’t.