he's little,
he sits in my lap.
English is not his first language
Sometimes he understands me
At times I understand him
We are learning
He doesn't smoke or cuss, but
barks, it's worse than his bite.
He kindly lets me pass first,
and prefers to walk behind me.
I seem to always forget his
custom,
at the door, we politely do a
dance.
In his culture he doesn't really
hug,
shake hands or kiss,
he licks
many, many times.
He would play all day
if I let him.
I would tell stories endlessly
if he listened.
Eventually one of us walks away,
except in a game of
stare-me-down.
Sometimes he blinks first,
other times I lose.
He's fierce.
I call him Sammy
I don't know if
he had another name
before I knew him.
He was growing already
when we met.
I think he's starting to like
this one
I love how his ears
flap back
when he runs to me.
I call him again to see,
Sammy.
He's eight weeks old,
wiser than his tender puppy age.
He refuses to let me train him
without teaching me as well.
He proudly sticks out
his little boy chest,
and prances.
He obeys
but knows he doesn't
always have to.
Mister Smelly Belly
Prince of Pee and Poo
Stinker
Little Rascal
Big Boy Cuddles Wants to Play All
Day
Leave My Shoe, Leave My Shoe
He auditions for a nickname.
But Sammy will do
just fine.
I hope he's my friend
for a long time.
