She enters. The dogs begin to bark in unison.
A dust-encrusted radio spits out an old song - Little Richard's band screaming, "Can't help it, the girl can't help it..."
She sidesteps the mangled, the tick-ridden and the runt of the litter. She walks on air as far as her stilettos will allow. Her perfume, as exquisite as it is electric, parts the way.
Walking amongst the most beautiful, she chooses the best and picks him out.
He stands for her.
He sits for her.
Rolls over, plays dead for her.
And then he will stand on his head for her.
She gives the dog a bone.
And then she runs along home.
An as she wanders off aloof,
the store clerk says, "There goes the goose."
Rhyme was never intended.
It walked in uninvited.
To throw a pang of amatuerish my way.