Tuesday evening, with Ruby

A Victorian clock ticking, melancholy

Upon the wall and slicing seconds,

And minutes, hours, days; enough.

Ruby, the Vizsla, sleeps through it

Without blinking, her head hanging.

Arms and legs knotted together

Relaxed, she is, beyond any recall.

So often today I've called 'come',

But the Swift's have won every say!

Now claws and paws pad no more.

She has such soft posterior regions:

Shammy ears, smooth belly, velvety toes

And a pleasing silence.

...

But then there is a noise below

And off she bolts to the bottom fence

When I thought she'd gone...

In the distance a siren

And a ball being kicked

Enticing her back I guide her

Inside.

She's returned to 'their' bed

And I gobble water biscuits

And Ossau Iraty.

Stillness surrounds the dusk.

The clock strikes 8

And I'm upstairs climbing asleep

To beckon her to cuddle next to me.

And she does!