A Prose Poem For Papi

He’s my little dog, Papi. He sits next to the table and begs. He knows how to soften hearts so some will slip a bite beneath the table. Anyone with a pet knows how they manage you.  Papi is a con man.  He remains stock-still, statuesque,  like the Sphinx in Egypt.  He stares at you with those big, brown soulful, hungry eyes.  Unblinking, he hypnotizes.  His concentration peaks.  He’ll not relax his gaze upon you or your plate. Patient,  worshipful, penitent pause.  He will do anything to get that one, last chewy bite of steak. “Papi”, Spanish for  ‘father’, is a rescue dog from down the hall where his keeper, Ada, has died. He was left alone for one long day before anyone discovered him. A black, seven-year-old wire-hair , Rat Terrier-Chuhuahua mix, he is highly intelligent. Signs of aging there with graying, salt and pepper whiskers.  The charming, artful dodger will steal away your food and your heart.

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