The pensive dog,
drowsed by talk,
took her thoughts
on wooded walk,
contemplative
and solitary,
past springtime’s
ruffled luminary.
The daffodils sighed
as she passed by,
looked after her
with solicitous eye.
This, dear reader, is Miss Janey Pickles. I’m told she is named for a literary figure beloved by my daughter-in-law. Some people speak of their grand-dogs; I am not one of those people. Janey Pickles is not my grand-dog even though she belongs to my daughter-in-law and my son. Or they belong to her. Whichever. The amazing thing about Janey Pickles is that sometimes she’s awake.
Oddments 