Attack Mode

He sneaks up on his prey

In the yard.

Tail wagging.

It has fallen during the storm

And now lies

Unnoticing of the danger

Lurking behind.

Without warning,

My golden retriever

Poodle

Beaver (?) mix

Hurls himself at the unsuspecting

Branch

And proceeds to

Tear it into pieces.

His ferocity knows

No bounds until

The branch lies in

Tiny fragments of

Its former self.

Then he looks to me

As if to say,

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”