Chihuahua of the Manor

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Aye, chihuahua, canis familiaris,

land piranha nipping at Aztec heels.

 

Aye chihuahua!

 

Heart of a Techichi warrior

becoming yipping snarling bitch,

eyes pulsating, patellas luxating

at the stench of homo erectus

US-es post-alus carrier-alopulus

approaching, adorned in

sky colors crowned in ivory pith.

 

She is fed on belly rubs and Kirkland’s

grain free turkey and pea stew

in the red can, served in a faux

Wedgwood bowl which she gently

mauls in her tiny maw with the

crooked right canine.

 

Queen Sharma is a diminutive avenger

who brooks no men, except Daddy,

yet dotes in squealing delight

at the touch of women and children.

 

Her territory, a peed-on scent trail,

extends from Guinevere to Lancelot

to Tristram to Merlin to the end

of Camelot Lanes, Streets and Places.

Neither hated squirrels, rabbits

and other canine species are allowed.

 

She can neither jump on the sofa

nor forge mighty streams.

What she lacks in peripheral vision

she makes up for in astute echolocation

and good stiff sniffs of her nose.

 

Yet she has a deep dark secret

that stains her royal dreams.

The scruff under her neck to the chest

in the russet form and color of a fox,

which she struts with a rooster’s pride,

is the product of her Chi-Chi mater

cohabitating with a spritz of Pomerania,

making her neither chihuahua nor pomeranian,

but yes, an adorable pomchi!

 

Yet that neither bothers her nor me

as she paws at the bed covers draping the

leader of this pack, burrowing under to

be close to my side, and dream dog dreams

of walks and car rides and never leaving me.

of walks and car rides and never leaving me.

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