Mad Max

Existence is magic, an exhilarating
elixir of excitement for little Max. And
nature was exceedingly generous in
gifting the little fellow with form and
temperament, his disposition irresistibly
enthusiastic in a cuddly, curly-haired coat
his snout an arousal of exuberant joy
as he eyes his playmate-of-the-moment
and mounts a challenge to race madly
about the woods, in and around trees
escaping contact burrowing into a vast
generosity of autumn foliage fallen on
the forest floor, his apricot-toned curls
disappearing within the yellowed and
crisply-curled leaves, as he dares the 
others to dive right in and swim with 
him through the frothy ocean of fall. 
His pleasure at being himself, a loved
companion and imp at one and the same
time, endearing at whimsical depth in
the conceit of the centre of the universe
for what else is there for a little dog
who has reached the milestone year
of life dedicated to the moment each 
invitation he accepts, an ambassador 
of leisure and unimaginable happiness.