I am a dog

I'll crawl back up inside myself
and on four paws you will find me, one tail, claws, watery eyes, wet nose.
Even if there isn't a wet nose and tail I shall pretend that is how it is. 
I watch you, from my spot behind the sofa, on the floor, shaking,
as you read your newspaper, glaring at me occasionally over it.
It is as if I had peed in the wrong place, and you remembered it, held onto it, rubbed my wet, dog nose in it.
I roll my eyes, cross my arms in front of each other and rest my head, the pedigree way.
Gentle, animal, snoring lets me wander in my mind
to days playing in the garden, by the rose bushes, and the apple tree.
Where great-grandfather hung a swing, and the older boys I played with dared me to walk across the fishpond; in bare feet across green netting.
A bowl of water on the floor, I whimper for but I do not use words.
Words are meaningless to me now. They are empty and hollow and used only for the threats of mere-mortals who do not know better.
I crawl to your side, like I crawled back up inside myself, and rest my chin on your thigh.  
You push me off.  
Refusal feels much more comfortable in the warm coat of fur  
or an old, fluffy blanket.
I am not who they say I am.  
I am not a worker.
I do not cry.
I am not a woman.
I do not laugh.
I am a dog.
I am a dog with a name like Buster or Tag or Marla and I cannot communicate.
I will not communicate with you.
I do not want to.
I will bark
at my owner. 
"Woof."
See? I am a dog... 
"Woof." 
... nothing more.