At the sight of the box with the clippers,

his tail folds between his legs 

yet he reluctantly follows

until I am positioned under a tree away from the glare of sun.

There is a tender breeze, in fact, and he sits for me,

given to, as the tool buzzes across the side of his torso

then through the mat of hair at his chin 

and around his ears. 

A squirrel baits him from across the yard

and I will lose him soon

but for the fact that he is good.

Even so, before long I have taken too long, and he lies down softly in the soft grass; tufts of his dark fur lifting into the September dry;

it floats momentarily and then lands somewhere on or between us.

It is a gentle protest

when he rolls completely onto his back, paws bent, eyes deep and clear as he watches mine 

searching for a hint of my satisfaction with his improved appearance.

As if a haircut could influence the affect of a perfect dog.