You whimper, a kicked dog
but refuse to stay
instead playing dead at my feet.
I could help you
if only you would
bare your throat
to bear my collar.
The mewling
isn’t warranted, you know.
I’ve never raised a hand to you
because you don’t want
that sort of petting.
So you say.
A pity.
Should I believe
your bark, then?
Or should I believe
the puppy eyes turned my way
whenever you’re tongue-lolling
for a morsel of affection?
Down boy.
Heel.
Stay.
I abruptly feel like I want to be a dog.
Ha! Tease 😀