When I was a young teen

I visited a good friend in another city.

She took me to spend a night

with acquaintances of her parents.

Dog breeders these people were - poodles especially.

 

In the house I met only two small dogs

both of them hyper with excitement

prancing about like puppets on strings.

I was to see the kennels in the morning.

We had a huge supper and lots of 'dog talk'.

When the hostess set me up on a big couch

I was out like a light.

 

Hours later it seemed, I woke up

hardly able to breathe, heavy of limb.

When I opened my eyes in dim moonlight

I was cheek to jowl with a huge standard poodle

draped over me from head to foot, fast asleep.

Maybe his weight woke me up, or his doggy breath.

It was HIS BED!

And a bumpy body like my five-foot-two

was no deterrent to HIS privilege.

 

I grew up with dogs; I was not scared.

The dog seemed so comfortable I actually apologized,

'I'm really SORRY about this -but OFF!

NOW!

And I heaved him on to the thick carpet.

'ME - HUMAN! YOU – DOG!! Tonight - you sleep THERE!'

 I speared my finger to the floor.

 

He looked vexed, then mournful, then resigned.

I leaned over and patted his woolly head.

'Goodnight then. I'll meet you properly in the morning.

By the way, I'm Cynthia. Only visiting. Just so you know.'

His tail thumped lightly.

'JEEZ, you're one BIG dog!' and I went back to sleep.

 

Next morning arguments and apologies:

'You said you'd let him out!' 'I thought you did!'

And to me, 'We were sure he went to his garden kennel.'

'Don't worry about it. What is his name anyway?'

'Sir Harry.'

'Fits. He was a perfect gentleman.'

And I didn't feel stupid saying such a thing.

 

 

 

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas