Her favourite ball had been lost in the bushes,
In spite of the brambles, the thorns and the rushes,
We’d looked for it everywhere, to no avail
And the small dog was sad with no wag in her tail.
For almost a month she’d refused to play ‘fetch’;
With the air of a glum, inconsolable wretch
She had ducked when I’d thrown every ball that she had,
And believe me, she knows how to make me feel bad!
Then the ball guy comes round, so I warn of her grief,
And he looks at the doglet in sheer disbelief…
She is wagging her tail and her sorrow’s worn thin
As she drops a new ball at his feet with a grin.
She has groomed it and fetched it and chased it with glee…
Why couldn’t she just do the same thing for me?
I may feel redundant, but also feel…
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