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)
Leave A Comment