That’s Not My Dog

he patters round the house and yard in search
of anything that might fancy to grab
and he finds all manner of things not drab
but jumps, plays, runs, on the deck to there perch
and waits for things to move, or not to lurch
his eyes move fast, he turns his head to nab
a thing was it a toad? a rat? a crab?
he lunges ‘cross the yard beneath the birch
tumbles then rights himself, so glad he’s mine
I watch him run and jump and play all day
and far into the night as he looks back
at me and asks in his own way if lack
of energy is why i do not play
oh lov’ly little rascal my feline!

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