His name is not Fido, he can’t bark

or run on all fours, yet he’s kept on a leash

tight as a choke collar, a ring-a-ding gizmo

with numbers, songs and pictures that light up.

“When the saints come marching in”

gets everyone jumping and jiving

like disciples of Father Devine.

He’s strong as a bull with mountain goat legs,

a triathlon hero at the YMCA.

Biking, he’s as fast as a Tour De France

winner; hiking, he climbs without pause

scrambling ahead of a Himalayan Mount sherpa.

Paddling a kayak he ploughs through water

as if his tail was on fire.

Leaving home his phone never stops ringing

until the battery dies and his leash is undone.

It’s his worrisome wife calling and calling,

scared he might be lying somewhere flat on his back.

He’d much prefer old fashion ways of keeping in touch,

sending smoke signals or letters by Pony Express.

If he bolts out the door forgetting his leash

she gets totally flummoxed. To keep the peace

and not be expelled from the marital bed

he’s reluctantly harnessed again and again.

It’s great feeling wanted and held real close

but smothering love can leaving you gasping for air.

All he can do to reassure his mate is remind her of

what FDR once said:

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”