I saw him at the shelter, the perfect little pup,
with jewel eyes, a floppy ear, and one ear standing up.
I took him home and lavished him with the best I could provide.
He paid me back by chewing shoes instead of his rawhide.
He dug up plants and shredded Kleenex on the bathroom floor.
He gnawed the legs of kitchen chairs and scratched up the front door.
He didn't listen quite as well as I had hoped he would.
I wondered if my choice of pets was really any good.
I took him to some training classes and he learned to speak in "man."
But more important, I learned to listen in "dog" and to understand.
His puppy mischief soon subsided and he grew up to be
the most devoted, faithful pet, like the Perfect Dog should be.
And as the years marched on I saw his muzzle turn to gray.
He no longer had as much energy to run and jump and play.
He lay quite happily at my feet, often glancing at my face
with those faded jewel eyes of his, so adoring and full of grace.
When the time had finally come to offer him his final rest,
my heart was filled with peace because I had done my best.
For now I know that perfect dogs are not born, but made,
from understanding that endures from puppyhood to the grave.