He speaks (though no one hears his words save me),
He’s conscious of my own subconscious cues,
I know not how he senses what’s to be,
Before I breathe or move, he knows the clues.
His inner clock is more precise and truer
than the most sophisticated Swiss,
Reminding me: “Replenish bowls!” Amused,
I dish the kibble with a forehead kiss.
Perchance some afternoon if I might miss
his daily walk, he’ll nudge with warm brown eyes
and head a-tilt; he’s pleading “pretty please”,
And once again I’m driven to comply.
Though I may be his master this I tell,
That he speaks to my heart, he’s trained me well.
Photo Friday: Eyes