The Doggy Diner
As Mrs. Arden beamed and steered
me toward her house across the garden
a dog—white, furry, huge—appeared,
eyeing me and Mrs. Arden.
As we walked in, the Great Pyrenees—
dirt stuck to fur, long strings of drool
dangling from lips—this carnivore
followed me in and ate the cheese
and rusks on the table straight away.
He then traipsed round in search of more
hors d’oeuvres but found dessert—the fool
(fruit and custard)—the soufflé
and the remainder of our meal;
then jumped up on an easy chair,
circled, settled, and closed his eyes.
“That dog’s got a wolfish appetite!”
I said. But all she did was glare.
Though I tried hard to be polite,
she never smiled. Her eyes were steel.
While the dog was sleeping like a lamb
we simply sat, had nothing to say.
As I dropped my napkin, about to rise,
she said, “Please, take your dog, okay?”
“Mine? I thought he was your dog, ma’am.”
And then she laughed, and all was fine—
until he went and drank the wine.