Letters

Hello, Pandemic Puppy!

How you love to run and jump

Let’s go on our morning jaunt

down by the old tree stump.

The frisky devil pirouettes

until he pauses with a schlump

About to do his business

my heart goes bumpety-bump.

He squats just like a catcher

awaiting a fastball’s thwump.

But this is not child’s play —

this is all about the dump.

Stringy? Runny? Perhaps discolored?

Let’s hope for brown and plump.

His state of health is at stake,

and I’m the home plate ump.

The plastic baggy scoops it up,

I inspect each and ev’ry lump,

I feel no shame, just gratitude

for all the solid clumps.

Nature calls three times a day,

so I focus on his rump

And grab the leash lickety-split

Whenever he starts to slump.

Okay, Puppy, let’s take a walk —

you can lick and sniff and hump.

We have to brave the wintry cold,

for we have no magic sump-pump.

Curious about the opposite sex,

he approaches a Doodle frump,

But she turns tail and scoots away —

she’ll abide no public strump

When he finally brings me home

and senses I’m no mugwump,

Puppy joins me in the john,

where I sit like Forrest Gump

To start the cycle all over again

With no regret and no harrumph.

We serve the finest kibble here

no guest is deemed a chump.

Tomorrow morn before the dawn

I’m bound to be a grump

But will react just like a cat

when I hear the very first flump.

I’ll walk the puppy in the dark —

I’ve learned to take my lumps

And give great thanks for any time

I’ll ne’er be thinking of Donald Trump

Bruce Buschel

Bridgehampton