Thursday, February 17, 2011

An Underappreciated Couple

There are just two of us,
a simple little pair.
We sit together on the floor,
right by the kitchen chair.

Every morning at half past six,
The little pet kisses us g'day.
She slops and splatters, crunches and clatters
Through breakfast served before play.

Then, off she waddles, all-satisfied
To wrestle slipper and conquer cord,
While we stand here faithfully,
Two sentries by the backdoor.

Occasionally, the little feet stop by
To drop surprises in our basins
Because every meal is much improved
By Hot Wheels retired from racing.

Or perhaps the ever-popular Polly Pocket
Laced with pliable plastic?
Small hands willingly share
And our buffet moves from mediocre to fantastic.

Odd, though, how they share
And we offer it with flair,
But they never nibble on our kibble,
Except for the one with tail and dog hair.

Something to do with that kitchen table,
And eating proper with forks and knife.
As if our toy-infused Purina
Was inferior, (or so says the wife!).

Our tired bowls sag with rejection,
And we begin to mope,
But then, a funny thing occurs
Which gives us fresh, new hope.

Coming with sideways tongue
The wagging, shaking ball of fluff
Drinks her full, eats her portion,
As if she can't get enough.

She's thorough and satisfied,
When she licks our sides to a sheen,
And what delight at her delight!
We're tickled and we're clean.

So, whether the snobs in these parts
Accept our gifts or not,
We know our rightful place,
As dutiful minion of dog slop.

We endure the long hours of service
(Before we secretly deflate at night)
All for the joy of watching
That hungry dog chew and bite.

Every once in a while, kids flip us over
And use us as a climbing stool,
Sometimes, the pup teethes on our rim,
A surprisingly useful backscratching tool.

We are not offended in the least,
Only pleased by our many applications.
Who knew two food bowls could supervise
Such interesting ministrations?

So, we extend our bountiful wares -
Both edible and practical sorts.
Like Victorian butlers holding their trays,
Sundries we offer our cohorts.

If only we could convince that mother
To allow us a place of honor.
It's not the centerpiece we desire,
Just a humble spot by the dish of butter.

Off to the side, but certainly on the table,
We know it's not too much to ask.
After all, she aimlessly chases dust bunnies
While we do the most important task.

We continue feeding and serving
Despite that mother's snub,
And dream of life as the centerpiece,
On a table where we are the hub.


Amanda said...

Love this ode to humble pet-dish servitude!...and love your word smithiness.

Karen said...

Many thanks! And it means a lot coming from the Word Smith herself! :)

Anonymous said...

Let me guess-too much snow? Or maybe you're studying poetry this week? I know, you are avoiding getting started on that retreat talk.
Great poem, but I am concerned about your preoccupation with the dog dishes...K

Karen said...

Oh Karen, you have me pegged. Perfectly. Cabin fever, procrastination, and too many hours in the kitchen...

Hope you are well,