Chihuaha of the Manor

 Aye, I am Chihuahua! Canis familiaris!  
Land piranha, heir to Aztec dreams,  
nipping at heels that dare invade my kingdom.  

I am Queen Sharma, noble warrior reborn,  
small but mighty, heart bursting with pride.  
My eyes bulge with fiery determination,  
my joints tremble as the post-alus carrier-alopulus  
approaches, skies on his shoulders, ivory crowning his head.  

I dine on belly rubs, the finest turkey stew  
from red cans labeled Kirkland, served  
in what they call a Wedgwood bowl.  
No matter—I gnaw it gently, tooth crooked,  
but spirit unbroken.  

My royal decree forbids all men but Daddy.  
Children and women I bless with squeals of delight—  
their touch, a balm to my warrior soul.  

My empire stretches far and wide,  
from Guinevere to Lancelot, to Merlin himself.  
No squirrel, no rabbit, no unworthy canine  
shall breach the scent trail of my pee-marked borders.  

Leaping to thrones (they call them sofas) eludes me,  
and mighty streams defy my step, but do not pity me!  
My ears, fine-tuned to every sound,  
my nose, keener than prophecy,  
find all secrets the world hides.  

One secret, though, lives within me—  
my russet mane and fox-like chest are not pure Chihuahua.  
Pomchi, they call me, child of Chi-Chi and Pomeranian panache.  
But I care not for labels. I am Queen. I am me.  

At night, I burrow beneath the covers,  
my place beside my leader, forever close.  
Dreams fill me—of walks, of car rides,  
of never leaving the side of the one  
who sees all that I am,  
and loves me still.

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