For years now that Pat has been keeping a log
Of the times I've been washed down with soap and a hose
Just because it's so lovely following my nose
To find El Dorado! At a groundhog's front door!
Where I roll round fondly, who could ask for more
Than to cover oneself with an odorous smell
In streaks and with smears from one's head to one's tail?
Pat's tended to rave of my stockings bright white
That I can jump fences with all of my might,
How I messed up my hind legs through landing all wrong
Their repair cost a bundle has long been Pat's song...
But the tables are turned now; I'm talking this time
And will be presenting my own tale in rhyme.
Pat's stories tax patience, from my point of view.
Just between me and you, my version is true.
There are people who say groundhogs can foretell
On February Two, if the sun shines down well
And they're scared by their shadow, that winter will last,
While they hide down below 'til six weeks march past.
So here is my tale of the wild groundhog
A fascinating subject for every dog.
Groundhogs wreck farms, many places on Earth,
And tunnel away 'neath the county of Perth.
When we walk at the farm I search for the places
Groundhogs dig their holes, as research for chases.
As you know, they are critters that dogs love to run
And beat to their doorways. It's marvellous fun!
Whenever that happened Pat always yelled: "No"
Tried to spoil my sport. Tried to not let me go
O'er the fields after groundhogs; what can I say
She didn't understand that I chase them for play.
It isn't as if I were sporting a gun
A fair race in the fresh air can really be fun
Sometimes as far as a field and a half.
So the rest of this story should give you a laugh.
I'd sniffed out a groundhog for two days or more,
And there I stood barking, between him and his door
That groundhog kept snarling; he'd fight 'til he dropped
My chasing and stalking...Pat wanted it stopped.
When she got between and grabbed for my collar
That groundhog bit her and, shucks, did she holler!
And you can ask Pat, if you have any doubt
What that scar on her ankle could be all about?
I know there're some tales one never should tell,
And I do like Pat, as she feeds me quite well,
But she's quit interfering; now my fun can thrive,
Which shows poetic justice may still be alive.
Mr. Shakespeare
