A Poodle's Praise

Prowling 'round, with her nose to the ground,
Tiffany seems like an old blood hound.
The yard is her private domain to hunt.
She probes with her nose so blunt.

The uncut grass is Savanna plain
In blazing sun or pouring rain.
And she is a lioness, hunger-driven
With her unrelenting sniffin'.

Now, on the edge of the wilderness turf,
From the plain and intruder bursts.
A gaping cavity, red-lined, fierce and tall,
Faces Tiff with silent stare and her back's against the wall.

She raises her head just as proud as can be
With a stare that says "You won't pass me!"
Her snout is a-quiver, tasting air for clues.
Her lips curl back, sending more bad news.

She inhales real deep and plants her feet,
Posturing out "No Defeat!"
She growls and snarls and threatens to charge
The invader there on the edge, the marge.

The intruder is firm, and silent and strong
With a neck all sinewy long.
In the breeze it moves so slight at all
And it stands so very tall.

But Tiffany is the wild-bred queen;
She's the ruler of the scene.
A-barking now, and snarling loud,
She's says she'll stand her ground.

She prances forward a step or two
To tell the thing to shoo.
But it's standing there, unmoving still
And Tiffany's set to kill.

She takes a few more tastes of air
And tilts her head first here, then there.
She freezes and stares and threatens more.
(She's ferocious to the core).

Her white, curled coat and her bearded chin
Are her pedigree and she has to win.
Her puff-ball tail is flagging there
And her fangs are quite a-glare.

She makes her move and charges now,
Then stops, bewildered, and wondering how
This flower, this tulip, sweet and red,
Could threaten her. She shakes her aging head.

Oh, Tiffany's an aging pup and her vision's going dim.
Her ears are stopped. She no longer hears the birds sing morning hymns.
But Tiffany's the wonder dog, the pure-bred queen of the range.
And she'll always own the household here, for I love her just the same.

COPYRIGHT DAVE MARTIN