Proudly he patrols this plot of a yard.
Seeking, he scavenges the remains of our supper.
Running and leaping, he lands on his feet.
No bird is allowed; he barks and bounds after.
Vermin are forbidden; he evicts them abruptly.
He is pet, he is friend, he guards us intently,
and at the day's end he curls on us meekly.
Inside and outside he is decidedly different.
In his yard, he yaps and yields to no one.
In the house he is humble where humans watch over.
Cats there contrive to conceitedly stalk him.
Sneakily he searches and scraps are his plunder.
Shame enshrouds him, shrinking when caught.
His foes are feline, a feud hard-fought.
He defers to us supine, this he accepts, his lot.
Rags (AKA Strummer)
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