Our Dog Poem by Robert Melliard

When I take her red lead off its shelf,
she hears it scrape or jingle,
and lifts her white-curled head expectantly.

And when I put on old, creased boots,
she knows we're going somewhere wild
and prances like a circus horse,
but much more gaily.

Once in the car,
she darts from side to side.
Does each back window, slightly down,
bring different smells?

When she whines,
I swear I'll never take her out again.
She seems to understand
and soon just grizzles faintly.

But once we're there,
in scrubby deer- and boar- and wolf-land,
on hill-crests with wide views,
she lives more in two hours than in two months
of lounging round our home - and I do, too!