Our sweet retriever, we concur,
Is practically furniture.
In rays of sun,
She comes undone,
And ever sleeps without a stir.
Her golden tumbleweeds roll by,
Beneath the sofa multiply,
Without a care,
She lounges there,
Until a shadow makes her cry.
At such, she jumps to full alert,
And barks her head off, as if hurt,
If wind should blow
Or folks tiptoe,
For now her hearing does desert.
A wary watchdog, she is not.
Protective skills she has forgot.
But she can yelp
And cry for help,
And raise a ruckus all for naught.
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