The Watchdog

The watchdog's on patrol tonight; beware,
Don't let him catch you creeping down the stair.
Stay in your room, be silent, bolt the door;
He doesn't quite know what he's watching for.

The cur is poorly trained, unchained and rabid,
Half-blind, inclined to bite from spite and habit.
Unable to distinguish friend from Foe,
He clamps the innocent leg and won't let go.

The burglar, climbing down a nearby tree,
The harmless guest who's gotten up to pee,
Master himself, asleep in his own bed,
All pose a threat, in Doggy's addled head.

But should he lunge at you, don't run away.
He loves the chase, his vicious form of play.
Throw something, quick, to occupy his teeth:
A bone, a biscuit, or a laurel wreath.

© Travis Coates