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With a tricolor carriage, long and low,

I’ve always been fond of taking it slow.
Nose-to-the-ground is my best yoga pose
And I assume it with more grace than those
Who tout their mile-high four-packs of legs.
Oh yes, I can bring those types down a few pegs.

Shy at first, I’m the queen of serene.
With floor-length ears, especially keen,
So I hear lots of sounds as I amble along,
Insects and air gusts singing their songs
In melodies that, quite loud to me,
Escape My Person entirely.

She thinks I inhabit another dimension
And I’ve heard her upon occasion mention
That part of my daily regimen
Must be tapping a stash of hallucinogens,
But really it’s just the synthesis
Of endorphins that fuels my bliss.

Sometimes in the zone I’ll stop midstride
—no reason, really, I just decide—
And she’ll trip over my stillness to fly and collide
With what patch of ground’s on the other side.
Words emerge that I don’t understand,
Possibly a garbled reprimand,
But she can’t help but absorb the fall’s take-away:
Stop going so fast. Slow down. Today.

As a lady Basset of a certain age,
An enlightened seeker, some might say a sage,
I offer this truism, a profound one at that:
Wisdom may cometh after a splat.

Bob A. Cat, Gracie’s maternal half-brother, is away on assignment.