I don't like closed doors.
Don't like doors closing in my face.
I would rather be out, digging
under the bottle brush, pulling
roots from the nasturtiums.
I would rather chase scurrying squirrels.
I love to roll in wet lawn
then dry my paws on the carpet.
Mom may fume and fret, give me
a bad-dog-slap as she wipes
and brushes me all over.
I hate howling away my blues
when everyone has left for work.
I would rather frolic
with that sickly, tick-infested dog
who whines in the verandah for my favors.
I don't like to fetch or follow,
not even, if a hundred times, I am told :
good boy ! good boy !
But when the door opens again
all this I will forget.