I would like to share with you an excerpt from my aforementioned poetry collection, Heaves Of Grass. Ahem...
On Being A Big, Mellow Hound In A Small-ish Apartment
I am a proud Irish Wolfhound
Not the petite-est of breeds
One-thirty if you're counting by pound
We're not so much dogs as we're steeds
My Daddy is not a short fellow
A giant compared to some guys
But if I stand up straight saying, "Hello!"
My nose reaches way past his eyes
I greet every morning with tail wags
A stretch and a woof and some kibble
My Daddy comes home with the large bags
Tinned food? Oh, sure – I'll have a nibble
I eat, then I sleep, then I eat more
Big doggery sure has its perks
To some it might sound like a huge bore
But for me – I just know that it works
Some dogs seem to need lots of frolic
But I'm quite content with my strolls
To me this apartment's bucolic -
My days measured out in food bowls
It has come to my attention that the most insightful, relevant, and important publication in the history of magazines, The Bark, has in its current issue a thought-provoking article on the dynamics of petting. The esteemed Dr. Patricia B. McConnell purports that there is, in fact, a right and a wrong way to pet your dog. As you might imagine, this has fomented a good deal of debate in our household. My charming colleague Morgane argues that there exists no such thing as an incorrect petting time, place, or methodology. Belly rubs, ear scritches, head pats – she will take them anywhere she can get them. I am not saying that she is indiscriminate with her affections…all right, I suppose I am. Not that there's anything wrong with that – it is just not how I, Mordred T. Dog, choose to roll.
I will always happily receive all manner of pets and pats from my Daddy, and the Girl who sits close to him on the couch indeed possesses a deft hand with the tummy rubs and neck-fur ruffling. Would that all who wished to lay hands upon my luxurious pelt were so skilled, but sadly, such is not the case. Oh, the tales I could tell you of wrong-direction fur strokes, ear yanks, and head pats administered as if my noble skull were instead a bouncy, red playground ball. The horror. The indignity. The ouchiness.
But I am not seeking your pity, dear friends. Rather, I would like to enlist your support for my initiative to include a mandatory dog-petting education curriculum in schools all across the land. Such a program would provide two-legged young people with a most pleasurable interaction with representatives of our canine community, participating pooches would have their fill of attention, hugs, and cuddles, and, most importantly, it would assure competent and un-annoying pettings for future generations of dogs.
If not for me, then won't you at least do it for the puppies?
I've been working on some poetic tributes for several dear friends. Sadly, a face-lick can only say so much.
I know I'm no Whip-Poet, but if you'll indulge me…
My friend Morgane is a pretty whippet
Given a drink, she'll not slurp, but sip it
When she stretches, you'll see all her ribs
'Cause when food plummets floor-ward, she gives me dibs
She dozes quite often – a most charming habit
Her legs twitch in sleep, like she's chasing a rabbit
Her nose is sharp, in form and in function
In saying this next part, I have no compunction
You may search high and low, about and around
But you will not find a more elegant hound
I thank you for your time. I'll be paw-tographing copies of my forthcoming book, "Heaves of Grass" by the big bone statue in Tompkins Square Park every afternoon, so please let me make your acquaintance.
I get so confused sometimes – and I don't just mean when Daddy and Our Mommy Girl come in the door at the same time and there are so many faces to kiss and legs to rub against and hands I hope will pet me that I just have to run away and chew on a stuffed toy for a minute. I mean that Mr. Mordred and I have nice names, but two-leggers hardly ever call us by them.
To me, Mr. Mordred is always Mr. Mordred, but Daddy calls him Boy, Big Dog, Murjib, Chauncey, Steve, Lumpy, Drooly, and some other things I forget, and the Girl calls him Smedley, Mr. Droolyhead, Baby, Big E. Dog, Mr. Dog Size Large, and also Steve (they both always giggle when they call him Steve). He's only Mordred when he's been bad, which is sometimes.
I get called Skinny, Posy, Whippety Sue, Poopy Sue, Mogie, Goo, Mozie Moo, Little One, Mozarelli, Puppatita, Morzuki and…oh, there are new ones all of the time, but I know they mean me if they say it in the special high-up voice. And no matter which one it is, I will come running as fast as my fast, fast legs will carry me because if someone is calling my name, then someone is thinking of petting me!
Some pet dogs get their names called because their Mommies want to go dancing with them. Yesterday Daddy was reading from the grey pieces of paper that there are some Mommies (mostly Mommies) who like doing this so much that they join clubs to do this with other Mommies and their dogs, but that sounds too silly to be made of the truth!
Gentle readers, 
Hi nice friends!
