The Small Dog and the Hoover-Monster

The Small Dog

She says that I am an unfortunate pup,

I shed loads of hair that she has to clean up;

When it’s summer the finest fur next to my skin

Makes its way to the floor so my top coat is thin.


Now, myself, I think that is a perfect design…

The fine stuff’s discarded, the top coat can shine,

She helps it along as she combs me each day…

Then I can go out, either sunbathe or play.


But she’s none too happy, and curses instead,

And says she could make up her own ‘feather’ bed

With the hair she removes from my coat and the floor

When she’s just hoovered up and she says, “Small Dog…more?”


It comes out in handfuls, she’s filled up the bin,

As if Nature’s management style is a sin,

I really can’t help it, it’s just how I’m made

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