Homers Seeing-Eye Dog

 Most of the time he worked, a sort of sleep
with a purpose, so far as I could tell.

How he got from the dark of sleep
to the dark of waking up I'll never know;
the lax sprawl sleep allowed him
began to set from the edges in,
like a custard, and then he was awake,
me too, of course, wriggling my ears
while he unlocked his bladder and stream
of dopey wake-up jokes.
 The one
about the wine-dark pee I hated instantly.

I stood at the ready, like a god
in an epic, but there was never much
to do.
 Oh now and then I'd make a sure
intervention, save a life, whatever.

But my exploits don't interest you
and of his life all I can say is that
when he'd poured out his work
the best of it was gone and then he died.

He was a great man and I loved him.

Not a whimper about his sex life --
how I detest your prurience --
but here's a farewell literary tip:
I myself am the model for Penelope.

Don't snicker, you hairless moron,
I know so well what faithful means
there's not even a word for it in Dog,
I just embody it.
 I think you bipeds
have a catchphrase for it: "To thine own self
be true, .
 .
 .
" though like a blind man's shadow,
the second half is only there for those who know
it's missing.
 Merely a dog, I'll tell you
what it is: " .
 .
 .
 as if you had a choice.
"

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