A Dance With Hattie

A walk with Miss Hattie
is no easy feat.
It's more like a bad dance,
that each day, 
we repeat.

Despite the white slippers, 
we wear on our feet,

we are no ballerinas--

we fumble,

we stumble,
we struggle,
down the street.

For, she and I,
together,
are never in tune.
We don't know our moves,
as each day,
they seem new.

We haven't got rhythm,

despite practice galore.

Yet, as partners,
we practice.
For this dog,
I adore.

Oh, there have been days

when she's walked straight and true, 

at my side, 
head held high,

taking in all the views.

But these days never last. 
These moments--they are fleeting.

And, again, I'm dragged along

to the song that she's singing.

Her music is rapid,

full of starts and quick stops--

It is fierce!

It is frenzied!

It will move you!

-----NOT!

It makes her leap left, 

then lunge hard 

to the right.

Whilst I pull back--

and curse her--

with all of my might!

Prancing and dancing on 

white tip-toed feet,
she seems not to care
how she looks in the least!

She'll circle and circle,

back and forth,

all around.

Seeking 
just the right spot,
down there, 
on the ground.

Not there!

Not there either!
She sniffs in vain.

"Hurry," I beg!
"Hurry," I claim!

All this,
while I juggle

the leash back and forth.

Behind me, 
in front of me,
I bend and contort.

We are not like those gymnasts 
who perform well in tandem.
Twirling bright colored ribbons.
Wearing bright colored fashions.

Our clothes do not match.
We don't walk as one.
We don't wear bright lipstick, 
or put our hair in a bun.

We don't stick our landings,

though, we sometimes get stuck--

with the leash
all wrapped up, 

behind, 
and in front.

As I struggle to fix us, 

she grabs hold with her teeth.

Leash and collar clinking,
I get no relief.

She looks like she's smiling,
a mouth-full of white.
While I stand there, fuming,
a ridiculous sight.

I try to keep calm.
We are still on the stage.

"Leave it," 
I sing.

"Leave it,"
I pray.

I let out the slack,

then rein it back in.

When-- 

suddenly--

she slows,

or turns,

or spins!

I watch out for feet 
and paws that are stumbling.

We look more like street fighters

about to go tumbling.

To passersby,

we must look a fright.

Neither in charge,

both up for a fight.

And then, 
for a second--
just a moment--it seems.
She walks
calmly and quietly
at the side of me.

She curtsies down low,

before reaching up high.

Her tail curled up tight,

upon her back side.

The leash is loose.
My arm now at rest.
Her eyes ask, "are you coming?"
It's a dare.
It's a test.

Then, in a flash,
the performance is over;
and no one has seen!

And she's back--
There's no slack--
and I want to SCREAM!

But, we are not quitters;

and I'll keep trying to fix

this dog, 
and this dance of ours,

that no one should miss.

For, I dream of, someday,
strolling, side by side,
with my little brown dog
and feeling that pride
that comes with loving,
and teaching,
and being her guide. 

So, I'll try again tomorrow,
and then again next week.
We'll keep prancing,
and dancing, 
and walking the streets.

The End--