Oh what glorious stanzas my dog might write if she could.
She might pen passion filled ballads about the desire to lick the sliver of avocado off my top lip when I’m eating my salad. About her dedication to her seat right in the corner in that shadowy spot between the table and the wall. Time of day matters not. If there is food at the table little dog will be there. In wait. For tiny scrap to fall or better yet some authority above her to glance and take pity on her little bereft soul and hand a morsel down.
She might scratch out a soliloquy of the injustice of not getting to lick the plate once said meal is done. Her heart dropping as the dishes get moved from table to sink without being offered dog-ward.
She might, one day, compose a sonnet or two about the exact angle the fork takes as it enters the mouth. The glint of light that reflects from the metal tines as it moves with purpose. The deft crunch of the jaw, the quick swipe of the tounge as the food disappears into other worldly places. She only knows it goes. She hasn’t bothered to learn where….Or perhaps she knows much more about that.