Inchworm

He feels unfairly put-upon, that
much is abundantly clear. Not for
him, the frenzied antics of his canine
peers attempting to communicate
their urgent desire to gambol about
free and careless in the urban woods.
His wish is to forever loll in the sun,
recumbent and satiated with the
sloth of comfortable stillness.

Grudgingly, helplessly, he permits
the ritual of collar and harness,
leash attached, to set out on his daily,
oh so unappreciated stroll in the woods.
Once upon a time that was a vigorous
jaunt; now, no amount of tugs on the
leash, verbal urgings at first quietly,
hopeful, mounting to exasperated orders
impels him to pick up his pace.

His human companion tells him
he'll never get anywhere at that rate,
and despairs she will not, either. She
tells him he has begun to behave like a
tired old tubby, but he is unmoved -
literally. You're only twelve, she pleads;
look at your sister go! She's almost nineteen
... he cares not a whit. For if he thinks
of himself at all, it is as an inchworm.