Torn to Shreds

.
Oh, no.
Dog rips up my poem,
all vigorous head-shaking, quiet growling, total focus.

Cat observes from the sofa, interested but not surprised.

I, however, am surprised, frozen in place.
Dog does things like this.
Why am I surprised?

Why did I leave my poem by the fireplace, next to my cup of tea?
It was coming along nicely, the poem. It was.

Dog looks up and sees me.
Tail wags happily as he trots over to show me the results of his fine endeavors.
He drops pieces of shredded poem at my feet.
He waits for praise and a pat.
And perhaps a treat?

I sadly gather up the scraps, sit next to Cat, and start piecing
the poem together, like a jigsaw puzzle.
Some words are slobbered beyond
recognition, but most are there,
ready to be assembled.

Hmmm. Perhaps Dog is an editor.

Cat looks at me skeptically.
Dog scratches his ear.
Words and phrases glow like jewels.
.