The house is still, no sounds to wake
The two-legged oafs
Who cried and moaned and quaked,
When sleeping is all the effort I’ll ever make.
No arms to reach that itch, that scritch I hated
Just behind my ears
With deft-like fingers scratching a tainted,
furry mane where fleas once happily congregated.
I linger at the door no more, looking out
At the luscious green
Mine to prowl and rule and scout,
Now barren without my pretty pout.
My bed, though cold and compressed
Hidden beneath roots
Where only those in leaves and bark – well dressed,
Mark my final home, my permanent rest.