The way all girl dogs talk French you’d think we

lapped wine and jumped hoops only in Parée.

But non. We are simply cats trapped in dogs,

trans-special, soon to travel to Den Haag

or somewhere with specialists (a species-ist)

who can free us from both this Gallist

lisp and this dreadful bark for which I think 

they call us bitch. Twice I’ve consulted shrinks

on the subject of my name, to wit: Spot.

Run, Spot, run? they hmmmm. Think TV, think spot

on prime time, you’re an actress for Milkbone

who never ever thinks of drinking cologne.

But it’s “Out, damned Spot” over and over.

I sigh. At least it’s a good author.