My miniature dachshund/editor is one today so to celebrate I wrote her a poem.
To a Sausage Dog on her Birthday
Miniature dachs-hound of the Baskervilles,
Scourge of the skirting board,
Our fearsome beast
Is now one-years-old.
In these last twelve months
She’s grown from pup to dog
And developed the worrying habit
Of chasing next door’s mog.
More draught-excluder than guard dog
Is our foot-long sub,
You can rob the house and take the car
For the price of a belly rub.
We’ve learned the thing she hates the most –
How dare the mailman deliver the post!?
So what good luck that her first birthday
Should fall upon a rainy Sunday.
She’s doubled in length
But gained nothing in height,
When her nose reaches the top step
Her bum’s still on the bottom flight.
After many hours of puppy training
It has come to our attention
That those great lugs of hers
Are mostly just for decoration.
Her masters’ calls are no match
For the tasty allure of freshly made crap.
We must have said a thousand times or so
Those well-worn words, “Bella, no!”
Now she’s reached the age of one,
It’s too late to put her in a hot-dog bun.
The one-time hairy sausage supper
Is no longer meant for lunch or dinner.
A year it’s taken to admit
That she’s become the family pet.
So all that there is left to say,
To our long dog friend: Happy birthday.