The dog’s hair rises in soft waves,

twisting and curling from nose to ear,

tan and  grey and flooded with white;

little moustaches – the English gent,

the rangy  wind-tossed bushman,

each wave a story, fleck of character.

As he sleeps he twitches, waking

with a fluttering roving brown eye.

And at rest he pushes out a tufty limb;

he seeks warmth and love:

the touch – assurance – we seek.

He lies stretched long and sighs,

a little chest rising and falling,

and with each movement – a flex,

a jerk – those curls rove and mingle

and the little nostrils flutter,

inviting kisses he never seeks