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.