…in ironic pentameter

4:45am, Sunday,
The no alarm morn.
Great White Hope-less
Bounds into the bedroom
Barking in sharp retorts:
“Okay,
I am ready to go out now,
Now, now, now!”

Understand, when she is not ready
There is no convincing her.
She lies like a lump
All 90 pounds of her Great Pyrenn-highness
Refusing to move anything
But those big black eyes
Sayin,
Nope, not now, I am resting.

In my half asleep stupor, I implore her
Jazzie: Please, go lie down
It’s too early.
Grrruff, Grufff, she responds:
I wasn’t addressing you,
I am talking to him, the walking and feeding guy,
The one who understands the pecking order around here.

The mister (downgraded from master) drags himself out of bed.
In the dark (I would strangle him and her if he put the light on)
He dons some kind of walk the dog in the middle of the night attire
And heads for the front door
As if to say: Your wish is my command.
Which it is!
Know why?
Because he is not the leader of the pack.
Jazzie dubbed herself alpha early on.
It took God 7 days to create the world.
Jazzie arranged hers in 6.