The plod of our dog seems steady and slow.
First, she stops, then she sniffs, then she sniffs once more.
Yet, she leaps and she turns and she pulls her leash
and she nuzzles at faces of strangers.
She guards us from food that she eats instead.
She tunes into signals – those weird ones from space.
She scratches at walls, and she bites up our chairs
and she casts our socks to oblivion.
She nestles and snuggles inside herself;
With her nose and her tail entwined, she is still.
Bolt up, she hears street howls of wanton song,
And she thinks of her dog days, primeval.