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.

The state of his health is at stake,

and I’m the home plate ump.

The plastic baggy scoops it up,

I inspect each and ev’ry lump.

Feeling no shame, just gratitude

for all the solid clumps.

Nature calls three times a day.

I focus on Puppy’s rump

and grab the leash, lickety-split,

whenever he starts to slump.

Come on, Puppy, let’s take a walk

I’ve grown suspicious of that flump.

You can romp in the autumn air

and sniff and lick and hump.

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,

we regard no guest a chump.

Tomorrow morn before the dawn,

I’m bound to be a grump.

But will react like an old cat

when I hear the very first thump.

Puppy will walk me in the dark

I’ve learned to take my lumps.

And give great thanks for any time

I’ll ne’er be thinking of Mr. Trump.

Bruce Buschel

Bridgehampton