Argawarga / Get Smooth

Molly liked the couch.
Despite our attempts
to condition her to
appreciate the comforts
of the pillowy dog bed
we paid too much for,
she made it known
to us that a
final decision
had been made.
Non negotiable.
She preferred the couch.
I liked it too.
This was the post
from which our dog
would keep sentry
over the mundane affairs
of our suburban street.
Loitering cats would evoke
a high pitched whine
and unwelcome kneading of
the rose red couch cushions.
Darting squirrels touched
off panicked revolution,
clog dancing back and forth
over Bean and I,
barking and drowning out
baseball.
I think even now
my thoughts of squirrels
make her memory
explode into a fur flying
dervish spin.

Stop it Molly,
or you're off the couch.

Wanna treat?

That one worked better.
Nothing worked
when the occasional
barrel chested dog
was paraded
down the sidewalkless
street
in front of our
westward picture window.
Molly would go
completely argawarga
Rrrrrrgggg!
I remember the low growl that
came in to being
on rusty train tracks
from the hum of silence
to a Pratt and Whitney roar.
Her coat would porcupine
like she licked a Tesla Coil.
Get smooth Molly!
Get smooth girl.
Bean used to say.

I sometimes go argawarga;
my heart and brain sling
fists of needles at each other
until they can't be touched
like that porcupine
except this time
he's climbing
an electric fence.
I need to get smooth
or I'm gonna be
off the couch.