hounded

My head is pushed down toward the pillow
under the rough, wiry flank of my familiar tormentor.

My nose crinkles,
disgusted by the sudden animal smell.

I struggle in discomfort,
but trying to shift a fat old dog is hard, and I'm quite tired.

This metaphor is chosen because,
like all animals,
dogs are wild and free.

But some stay, and become as familiar as dirt,
until you know their every movement,
all their little growls and yaps,
when they're hungry,
when they're playful,
and when they've just decided they want company,
and your head is a good place to sit.

My dog decided a while ago that I'm his.
He follows me everywhere, and because of his age often needs to sit and rest.
Everything stops for a while,
so he can sleep,
grab a drink,
but hopefully not gain strength.

Thanks for taking him out for a walk at least every once in a while.

Thanks for helping me train him,
tame him some,
so that at the very least,
he's not rude in company.

And thank you for the dog.
Just like ducks, the flowers of the field, and St John,
he's taught me a lot.