Am Brian
She
Calls me her therapy dog
But it is I who carry the burden of life
To the deep, fleecy confines of my doggie bed each night
Where worries jiggle around my flatulence, pummeled innards
Like half-chewed Bonio biscuits
In a tombola drum.
It is I who is in need
Of therapy.
Concerns weigh heavy
Within my perfectly-profiled-head-in-the-right-light
What if I am never to discover WHO the 'Good Boy' is
The one she urgently enquires about each day?
More so, why does she presume I am withholding knowledge
Of its whereabouts?
Is this why in her search for answers
She implements the sphere of torture
She calls THE BALL on our walks each day?
The ball she so forcefully throws
Compelling me to chase on, to run wildly into the distance
Tongue lolling from my panting jowls
Whipping against my flapping cheeks
Like Donald Trump's comb-over in a wind tunnel
Until, eventually, my speedy pace reduces to a halt upon discovering
SHE DIDN'T THROW THE BALL AT ALL!!!
Is this her attempt to beat me into submission
Through the malice of mind games
Thinking me forced to reveal the location
Of the elusive 'Good Boy'?
And why upon our walk does she insist
On collecting the odorous secretions of my previous meal
In tiny perfumed bags
Indeed, rewarding me for such an act!
The reward differing depending upon the size
Of that which is expelled from my
Neatly-trimmed-and-regularly-licked~clean-backside.
And why the disturbing, unflinching eye contact
When I am in the midst of implementing this manoeuvre
Her accompanying smile as disturbing as
Theresa May's jewellery?
What alchemy she intends to execute
With these putrid deposits of my DNA
I can but wonder
However, until such time as all is laid bare
I shall play my part well
And continue with the subterfuge of our relationship
I shall 'roll over'
I shall 'sit'
I shall 'play dead'
And whilst in this static position of the temporarily subdued
I shall ponder the questions burning in my soul
Questions such as
Why instead of such cold instruction
Am I never encouraged to
Pursue my dreams?
To think outside the kennel?
To tune into my purpose and align with it?
I suppose, dear friends, that the answer
To such contemplations
Will, at least for now, remain an enigma
And so, I shall concern myself no more
With this trivia
Choosing to return to the much more pressing consideration
'What, exactly, would I do with my tail
Should I ever catch it?'
© Copyright Lynn Gerrard
