The day shall break in which the hunger of my belly shall be unsated,
The seeking of my muzzle shall find this bowl empty
And you my companion shall find the shelves of your cupboard bare.
Yea, I know well and wag my gratitude at the feasting yielded of those shelves
Today and yesterday and the yesters of those days backward through tenfold years.
Know I well that of the kibblery called vittle vault we have yet not seen the floor,
For even at the precipice of its barrenness a magical revittlezation swells its supply,
And each day the receptors of my nose assess the supply in this cabinet
Of treat pouches plump and colorful like pretty poultries roosting in a hen house.
Your faith in this path of abundance is quaint my companion
Sweet and naive as the dreams of the puppies of purebred homes
But in it there is weakness of foresight
For do not dogs beyond our counting wander unfed day upon day?
Will not the law of chance make to fall upon our fortune
The straw of affliction and fasting?
This precious scrap of hide you bestow upon me now,
Admonish me not to consume it this hour, nea, nor even this day,
Rather than seek for it thus a perfect storehouse
Here beneath the mighty cushion of the seat that is love
Or perhaps secured safely in this hole I shall dig deep in the ball of snuggling
Or better it may be here in this mighty stronghold of pillow and blanket upon the dogbed called giant
Or . . .
Exegesis and commentary
Just in case you were wondering why I describe Frida as neurotic.
Left to her own devices, she has tried so hard to hide a special treat that she rubbed the skin off the top of her nose and started bleeding.
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