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Poem	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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