There was a time when I leapt from chair to couch and back again with nary a pant. Now, my solar plexus trembles under the weight of my own memory. I know I am a fragile and complex canine, but perhaps that's not the good thing I once thought it was. There is a fine line between Diva and piece of work, and I am plagued by the question: have I crossed it?
I like to chew socks.
Sometimes when I sleep, I am roused by the very force of my own exhalations. They resound in a cyclical keen of Why, Why, Why?
Last week I got my toenail caught in my ear-hair.
My youngest charge vexes me, veritably pulling the fur of her own protector. Daily, I ask myself if she is worth the chowder.
Can Opener! (hold up right paw) High Fours!
So contented was I with my tail of splendour. In those years when I was the only spaniel, I held it aloft--my plume of vanity. I knew nothing of the Blenheim Lozenge, that yarmulke of superiority, and I wanted for nothing. Now I feel the pain of knowledge--the knowledge of what I do not have. My glory days lay at my feet, a shameful pile of broken trinkets.
I believe T.S. Eliot was thinking of me when he wrote The Four Quartets. You'll say that's impossible given the time-space continuum as humans understand it, but if you simply re-read Burnt Norton it'll all make sense to you. Go ahead, I'll wait.
Sometimes I hide behind the couch and then JUMP OUT and run really fast into another room and then skitter across the hardwood floor and forget why I came in there so then I run really fast back to the couch in the living room and do a little business-business.
The Waste Land? Also about me.
I forget all about it until someone finds it and yells, Pam Spaneeuuul! and then I do ears-hang-low.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
S'okay because I like my name. It rhymes with ham. Pam, ham. Pam, ham. Pam, ham...
...Pam ham, Pam ham, Pam ham...Get it, get it, Clover? I'm a poet and I don't know it, ha ha ha!