She says that I am an unfortunate pup,
I shed loads of hair that she has to clean up;
When it’s summer the finest fur next to my skin
Makes its way to the floor so my top coat is thin.
Now, myself, I think that is a perfect design…
The fine stuff’s discarded, the top coat can shine,
She helps it along as she combs me each day…
Then I can go out, either sunbathe or play.
But she’s none too happy, and curses instead,
And says she could make up her own ‘feather’ bed
With the hair she removes from my coat and the floor
When she’s just hoovered up and she says, “Small Dog…more?”
It comes out in handfuls, she’s filled up the bin,
As if Nature’s management style is a sin,
I really can’t help it, it’s just how I’m made
That turns carpets hairy wherever I’ve laid.
So morning and night she will Hoover the hair,
And sweep in between with meticulous care,
And then turn around, see a new hairy trail
That’s wafting in furballs as I wag my tail.
“That’s it!” she says, “Small Dog, I’ve got it! Of course!
I should, without doubt, tackle hair at the source!”
So she tempted me over with treats to her knee…
And then, so unfair, turned the Hoover on me!
Well, honestly, first I just stood there in shock!
I just dare not move, stood as still as a rock,
She Hoovered my back and my tail and my side…
Until I shot off, seeking somewhere to hide!
And her, rotten two-legs, all she did was laugh
And go on to threaten a ‘nice’, soapy bath!
So today, if she grooms me with more than the comb…
I’m packing my tennis balls and leaving home!