Ha ha! This morning was searching an old folder on a hard disk, not finding it...but I came across this poem I wrote, years ago, from the point of view of a certain dog:

Second and First

Light comes. 

First Bird has yet to call at the waiting dawn, for dark still hangs in the air. 

Just beyond the coarse wood stake fence, fresh cat reeks, pungent wet in the dust. 

And yes, through the faintly graying quiet comes the careful pace of small feet tapping, almost silent, over the alley’s packed dirt, and with that smell and that sound also comes a deep perfume of ripening meat and melting vegetables and rotting grass and -- resonating somewhere near the bottom of that rich scent -- sharp oil-stink.

The symphony of odor seeps from a big, round, standing pit

where First and some Others who claim places near the Den

cache the food they cannot eat. 

Invariably the Devourer steals it. 

Second listens for the Devourer but does not hear its growl and whine. 

She hears three or four herd animals moaning across the big trail far to the north,

but none as huge as the Devourer,

none on the dirt trail that passes along the fenced boundary,

none on the rock-hard trail behind the Den. 

Soon the herd will begin to swarm, and the roar of their round black feet will wash over the Den’s territory like the thunder when hot water pours out of the wall in Bathroom, but that is yet to come.

Second considers whether she should rise and patrol the boundary but rejects the idea, for the only significant sound is the cat feet and they are moving away;

and besides, more interesting things lurk closer-by. 

A tiny moving column draws her attention. 

Little sour-stinging bugs march in a braided line toward a patch of dried sugar-smell on the ground beneath the whispering tree. 

Second surmises that they eat the sweet water that drips from the thing First hangs in the tree where the Buzzbug That Smells Like a Bird fights off its own kind. 

Second once tried to eat a sugar-spot but found it gritty, too full of dirt to be good. 

When she was young, she put her nose on a swarm of sour-stinging bugs, their scent sharp as the vinegar First pours on eating-leaves. 

They hurt the nose. 

Now she lets them alone. 

Sour-stinging bugs are no good to eat.

But just then another motion catches her eye, and this is good to eat:  one of those fat, crisp-outside-soft-inside under-the-refrigerator bugs! 

Second sees it scuttle across the patio and perceives that it has not seen her. 

Unlike First, she need not drag herself to her feet. 

Second leaps from the concrete and pounces at the big, mud-colored bug.

Teeth snap on air.  Bug shoots toward the mint pot. 

Second gives chase. 

She dives into the fragrant leaves, and their sweet piquance perfumes her muzzle.  Bug darts out of the herb and under the shrubs, and then it is gone.

And now First Bird, as though it were laughing at Second, trills into the morning air.  Immediately Other Birds answer, and a chorus of twittering voices greets the brightening sun.

Hungry, Second picks up Toy and enters the mouth of the Den. 

Her claws click on cold tile as she walks down the hall toward First’s Nest, musky with warm sleep-smell.  Before she reaches the nest, she hears First stir, and so after she pauses to study First, she does not leave, because she knows that First is faking sleep.

She places Toy on First’s Nest, not too close to First’s head, for this would risk an irritated reaction.  She waits. 

First’s hand snakes out from beneath the cloth that is the nest.  It gropes

for Second,

who approaches

and lets it stroke

her long ears and the thick, shedding hair around her neck.   Second picks up Toy

and deposits it on the pillow

where First is hiding her head. 

First growls softly, grips Toy,

and tosses it across the room.

Second streaks after Toy, grabs it, brings it back, and jumps onto First’s Nest. 

First yelps and sits up. 

She reaches for the nose-object that comes off at night, connects it to her face, and begins to climb upright. 

First stumbles out of the Nest and hobbles up the hall after Second, who leads the way toward Kitchen. 

First walks poorly in the morning, Second observes.  First is growing lame, growing old.  One day, Second thinks, maybe one day soon, First will no longer have the strength to keep her place in the Den. 

And then Second’s time to be first will arrive.

Perhaps that time is now, Second thinks, watching First’s back as First, stiff with age, bends over the plastic bin and scoops out crunchy, satisfying chunks to fill Second’s dish. 

But if she were First, Second wonders,

what and who would she be First over? 

The Den needs puppies. 

Second does not know how to get the puppies. 

Nor is she sure, if the Den had puppies,

whether she could keep them in line. 

First is dangerous.  She has a firm voice

and a steady stare,

and she towers over Second. 

She never flinches or shows a sign of fear,

at least not where Second is concerned. 

Even though First limps in the morning, she could still be strong enough to hold her own.

First sets the full dish on the floor and strokes Second’s head.  Second eats.

And Second waits.