My Friend of Comfort

Dedicated for my true friend, Pokey the puppy I have a friend tempered in anxiousness of speed indeed- He runs, jumps, and adjusts to my manner uncannily- A good friend is he who waits, in time and fate, for me in kind patience- His intent, at times, as I see and unbeknownst to him, is non other than to be fed- I watch him and he I through our anthropomorphic conscientious percipience- I ask myself, as always I always do, if he has slight of sentience in self- My friends form of expression queerly questions my countenance in sensibility- Which may or may not have some truth, for his truth is held in stealth- I have over the years attempted to lessen him in art of literature- Although at times he seems to acknowledge this by peeing on our praised favorites- By all means I consider him more an emotional compartan compared to my kind- He never regrets or resents me for unfairly failing notice to my dear friend- Maybe he ponders events by incertitude, though expressions neither deny or confirm- Though his actions always denotes incentive aspects of verbs, he chooses not to read I infer a conclusion that we only differ in level of magnitude of consciousness- For I know that he knows that I know he has some level of meta-cognition By Mark Miller, An inner examination into our art of artificial selection.