Sweeney Doggonistes

I hear a dog named Feeney
will track through swamp and sere.
I have a dog named Sweeney
who sniffs the atmosphere.

Ranging past the willow,
Feeney lives to hunt;
a kind of canine pillow,
Sweeney lives to grunt.

Feeney is unbounded;
Sweeney likes to dream
that he is not confounded
by wading through a stream.

Feeney never heeled,
Sweeney never strove;
Feeney far afield,
Sweeney by the stove.

The day he ambles out
Sweeney will make his way
in the land of sniff and snout,
but he may be the prey.

The day the grouse are gone,
Feeney will visit the vet,
looking put-upon,
in search of raison d'etre.

© Terese Coe