Bloodline

It was in the winter of our union

That I endured the final straw

We were supposed to travel 

The finish of the puppy era was at hand. 

Or so I thought. 

Looking back in dog years, it was 

precisely three months and forty pounds ago.

The day we met the new Breeders.

The day we loaded our new puppies, Bull Mastiff brothers,

into the back of the lemon chiffon 1977 T2 Bentley, 

Yes, the one with the chocolate brown

diamond quilted leather seats.

A pair of muscle pups

that shred rocks like tissue paper, and 

leapt through the air

like they were shot out of a gun.

Two raucous heartthrobs

that babbled in a tongue

that only their mother

a brawny brindle lass, 

With pink toenails could love.

In the interim, our eminent Great Dane, Zeus,

had completed his first round of sniffing

and reluctantly volunteered

to teach them the ropes.

His core curriculum covered the basics 

including but not limited to

Scouting the Perimeter

Finessing Your Scent 

Safe Pond Slurping 

and Midnight Howling.

They all got an A

in that last subject.

Our choir was so dedicated.

Sometimes they wailed up to three or four times a night.

In fact, they’ve enjoyed Midnight Howling so much

that they also enrolled in the advanced daytime course, Fevered Howling, and added Zeus’s favorite rendition of Tina Turner’s song, Proud Mary to their repertoire. 

I am curious about their parentage, though,

This particular trait must have skipped a generation 

because the sire and the dam did not bark.