To smell, or not to smell: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in a dog's mind to put up with
the pongs and prances of outrageous puppies,
Or to take arms against what at 6 weeks of age
is a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end the torments inflicted 
by my half-sister's children. To sleep: to dream;
and by dreaming I turn my thoughts to galloping 
cattle and eatable sheep, a dream which ends the annoyance
of waggling kelpie tails, ears chewed and food stolen, 
the thousand disasters that only pups can bring.

To sleep, to dream;
Perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep I see bowls of mutton laced with
gravy replaced with puppy-a-la-fricassee`
oh what dreams may come!
Yet there would be sadness where they to shuffle off 
this mortal coil, 
Best they grow and go to work and earn respect
And in the doing learn what a patient
patriarch I have been.

And yet here they come, all four on legs made wobbly
by milk filled tummies,
All four ready to attack as one.
Stop I say. To smell or not to smell
that has always been our question.
The puppies halt at these sage words. The eldest,
a black and tan of pooh-eating tastes sniffs
the wind and marks his territory accordingly.

One would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, just to witness 
the understanding of tradition. Come, I say.
They follow quietly and watch with admiration
as I mark vehicle tyres of various size.

To sleep: To dream,
and in that dream I see a thousand puppies lifting
their legs in triumphant unity. The fricassee` can wait!

(With apologies to Shakespeare)