by Stephen Gold

“Smell of human stress makes dogs pessimistic.”
—The Times

When my owner is stressed,
Out of sorts, or depressed,
I deploy my acute sense of smell.
With a solitary sniff,
I can tell from the whiff
If my day is about to be Hell.

In this life, I have found
That the role of a hound
Is to be a consoler and pal.
But it’s hard to bear up,
When, since I was a pup,
He’s done nothing but crush my morale.

I’ve tried nuzzling up tight,
In the hope that he might
Throw a ball, or say, “Time for a run.”
But he paces the room,
Wrapped in Stygian gloom.
(Have you seen how he fingers his gun?)

It’s a dog’s life for sure,
Just a crock of manure,
And I wish I could think of a plan
That would make him feel fine.
I should hang out a sign
With this warning: “Beware of the man!”