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should be allowed to lie in the sun twitching in rabbit-chasing dreams, to take sedate walks, barking at squirrels, to scoff their meaty chunks too fast to grow a little stout and slow, to howl sometimes at the lonely moon. Instead they sit up and beg my help with new tricks: fresh ways to fetch the mail, retrieve the files, roll over for new masters, play dead (or harder at times, play living), shake paws with a future which careens towards them like huskies pulling a sled, balance balls on their noses, balance the books, dance on their hind legs and bark along to the music of time. Maggie Butt |
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