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Tim An Irish Terrier
An Old Dog
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To Rufus A Spaniel
Rhapsody On A Dog's Intelligence
To A Terrier
Without Are Dogs
The Power Of The Dog
Remarks To My Grown-up Pup
Roger And I
To Tim An Irish Terrier
Hang garlands on the bathroom door;
Let all the passages be spruce;
For, lo, the victim comes once more,
And, ah, he struggles like the deuce!
Bring soaps of many scented sorts;
Let girls in pinafores attend,
With John, their brother, in his shorts,
To wash their dusky little friend,
Their little friend, the dusky dog,
Short-legged and very obstinate,
Faced like a much-offended frog,
And fighting hard against his fate.
No Briton he! From palace-born
Chinese patricians he descends;
He keeps their high ancestral scorn;
His spirit breaks, but never bends.
Our water-ways he fain would 'scape;
He hates the customary bath
That thins his tail and spoils his shape,
And turns him to a fur-clad lath;
And, seeing that the Pekinese
Have lustrous eyes that bulge like buds,
He fain would save such eyes as these,
Their owner's pride, from British suds.
Vain are his protests--in he goes.
His young barbarians crowd around;
They soap his paws, they soap his nose;
They soap wherever fur is found.
And soon, still laughing, they extract
His limpness from the darkling tide;
They make the towel's roughness act
On back and head and dripping side.
They shout and rub and rub and shout--
He deprecates their odious glee--
Until at last they turn him out,
A damp gigantic bumble-bee.
Released, he barks and rolls, and speeds
From lawn to lawn, from path to path,
And in one glorious minute needs
More soapsuds and another bath.
Next: Six Feet
Previous: A Friend