Buster Gets a Bath Poetry by Ashley Memory

Buster Gets a Bath

When I pick him up and tilt to the bathtub he falls limp with shock This cannot be. . . .

Then it’s dark thoughts from dark eyes, the dog I love so much hates me A torture worse than death.

All sudsy now, scent of clover and dead leaves washed away with lavender and lemon. How could you?

The sprayer — that cobra of doom strikes again and again. Even if it feels good I’ll never say so.

After a brisk towel rub he springs all over the house a hero home from the war The bath? It was my idea.

— Ashley Memory