So, it’s my eighth birthday, you see,
Or so they tell me, these sentimental humans.

One glance at my Mistress with my big brown orbs
And there is a treat on its way.

And today, my presumptive birthday, I’ll hit the jackpot.

One cockeyed, woebegone stare
At my Master,
And he’ll get me all the pizza crust
In Christendom.

So, I’m their birthday boy, don’t you see,
A red-letter day of their making.
Maybe true, maybe not,
But it keeps the goodies coming.
Who am I to complain.

“Otis, the birthday boy,
I’m a clever canine,
Toasty warm, fed to nearly fat
And employed.

A DOG!
With a real, live, human job.
With an editorial berth on the local tabloid.
Room and board of the finest fashion
Lavished on me,sparing no expense.

The job description?
One candid, terse, insightful comment a month
My own byline and header “Otis sez ……….”
Before I cuddle up in their bed.

A one-liner worth its weight
In doggie treats.
Who would have imagined.

It’s all about me, and should be.

Hum, I think I’ll master Latin
Before I’m nine.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia