Mother Doesn’t Want a Dog
by Judith Viorst
Mother doesn’t want a dog.
Mother says they smell,
And never sit when you say sit, Or even when you yell.
And when you come home late at night
And there is ice and snow, You have to go back out because The dumb dog
has to go.
Mother doesn’t want a dog. Mother says they shed, And always let the
strangers in And bark at friends instead, And do disgraceful things on
rugs, And track mud on the floor, And flop upon your bed at night And
snore their doggy snore.
Mother doesn’t want a dog.
She’s making a mistake.
Because, more than a dog, I think She will not want this snake.
Dogs and Weather
by Winifred Welles
I’d like a different dog
For every kind of weather—
A narrow greyhound for a fog,
A wolfhound strange and white,
With a tail like a silver feather
To run with in the night, When snow is still, and winter stars are
bright.
In the fall I’d like to see
In answer to my whistle, A golden spaniel look at me.
But best of all for rain
A terrier, hairy as a thistle,
To trot with fine disdain
Beside me down the soaked, sweet-smelling lane.
