Each Saturday morning my daughter becomes
a puppy. This continues for an hour or more,
before and after our breakfast.
The story is always the same. We find her at the back door.
She has walked and walked alone from a faraway place,
usually Boston. She is dog-tired.
We bring her inside but my husband is afraid,
not having grown up with animals. I pet her
and ask, “Can we keep her?”
We have to teach him about her, how never to touch
her face or pull her tail. He does this, of course,
repeatedly. It’s part of the game.
Occasionally, she gives birth
to puppies of her own, placing small stuffed dogs
at her belly and curling around them.
After a while , she turns back
into a little girl again,
and we go about our day.