It is harder for a dog to be a writer than for a human. All the human has to do is wander to the computer and whack away, but I have to wait until I can transmit my opus to my translator, and he is, oddly, not always available. Sometimes he’s not even here! (I think his priorities need adjusting, if you ask me.)

For today’s poem, I have been contemplating the anathema, the horror, the insult that I often encounter when I go on patrol in the big back yard.

So I have brought forth a sonnet. I don’t like to brag, but I don’t think most dogs have written many sonnets. So I am going to take it easy for the rest of the day. I think I’ve earned it.

Perdita’s Sonnet 1

The Cat Who Preens Outside the Fence

I know there are some human beans who say

We all must get along. And I agree

Until I go into the big backyard

And see a vision from my darkest dream.

Since I’m a dog, I do not seem, but am

At one with all the wondrous great outdoors.

Today it rains, but I don’t care because

I’ll be out in the air, the dirt, the smells,

But wait! I see that awful cat who spits

At me, (but only from the safety of

The other side. The fence, you see, he thinks

Is his security.) He sits right there

And smirks at me, and gloats, and preens and then

He says the most insulting things. I seethe!

But one fine day the garden gate will be

Ajar! We’ll see who wins when I am free!