My Dog is a Digger

She likes to tunnel under my fence,
like she's escaping Alcatraz.

She tunnels when it's raining,
when the ground is a black mud bog,
cemented together by sticky clay.
Sadly, her fur is white.

The day I discovered her project,
I saw her white ass sticking straight up
out of a hole along my fence.

I ran around to the other side
and saw her hopeful face,
sticking up and out of another hole.
Bad U!

She escapes with every heavy rain,
appearing later at my door like a beggar.
Her legs are thick pillars stuccoed with mud.

Dangling from tufts of belly hair
are wet nuggets of sticky clay.
Tiny roots are imbedded in her snout hair,
held fast by earthy cement.

I round up a bucket of soapy water, a hose,
a stool, a towel, and my little hand-held garden rake.
I tie her to a tree, strip down, and grab the hose.

I water blast the chunks away, fireman style.
Then I ruthlessly rake off what's left,
with my little hand-held garden rake.

Time to do her face.
She suddenly looks that way,
as if hearing a distant whistle.
I have to grab her by the nearly melted chunks beneath her chin.

She looks like a puppet head on the end of a fist.
Next: more water blasting and raking.
(With my little hand-held garden rake.)
It's a grim algorithm.

Then the towel. I dry her off with brisk digging circles.
Then me. And that's it.
Finally, we can return from the war.

We lay back, smile, and go Ahhhhhhhhhh,
pondering our respective ontological presuppositions.