A walk-through dog wash would be perfect. One
at my back door that washes, brushes
and dries my dogs. In minutes they’re done.
With a magic dog cleanser that rushes
To their skin, lifts the dust, with a smell dogs like
(And I like too). Once a day would be enough.
When night falls, or after a muddy hike
When fur is wet, their paws dirty and rough.
Instead of this I must groom them myself,
Brush in hand, unwilling pup at my feet.
I could have smaller dogs, the size of elves,
even a shedless dog, curly-haired and sweet.
As fate and love would have it, their furry
filaments are my burden to curry.
This is a Shakespearean sonnet, more or less. 14 lines, ababcdcdefefgg. Iambic pentameter (10 syllable lines with the stress on every other syllable, but I’m not a fetishist about that). The final six lines are supposed to set up a situation established by or counter to the first 8 lines. I’m not big on rules, though, other than the rhyme and syllable thing. I’m writing sonnets as a mental challenge, mostly, but once in a while one might be good. I started writing sonnets when I realized I just don’t have much more to say in one of my customary blog posts at the moment.
Still, I don’t know if Shakespeare (or anyone) before me has written a sonnet to dog hair. We might be witnessing a moment (low or high, you judge) in literary history.