Maltipoo Doesn’t Do That

In the wild city of Bronx, a feisty white glare,
Dwells Cotton, the maltipoo, tho’ with scarcely a hair.
Elderly, and spindly, deceptively meek,
But once in Target, boy, does her spirit peak!

Too skinny she may be, no Jenny from the block,
In the aisle of chew toys, she surely does rock.
She squints at the discounted kibble, (I swear it’s true!)
Maltipoo doesn’t do that, she’s high-end through and through.

In a pocket-sized sweater – she’s truly quite chic,
Relishing car rides, each week one antique.
Lovingly I call, but to my dismay,
Cotton’s canine ears have heard grander days.

Can’t hear, doesn’t matter, her eyes hold the perk,
Catch sight of a squirrel, goes rumbling berserk.
A seventeen-year-old dynamo, with a frisky jog,
No subway rat can upstage my classy dog.

Loves to loaf on the sofa, snug as a bug,
In a department store blanket, cozy and smug.
Admittedly, no Jenny, she preceded the name,
Yet, Maltipoo doesn’t do that, she’s acquired her own fame.

Nights she perms in my lap, beneath the moon’s beam,
While dreams of the Bronx and Target stream.
That frail lil’ Cotton, ceaselessly spry,
With starlit twinkling found within her eye.

Slight of stature, but weighty in might,
Not Jenny, but Cotton, is my delight.
Maltipoo doesn’t do that, she does as she please,
Living opulent dreams in the city of Big Cheeses.

From the Bronx to Target, in her stylish car,
Her diminutive adventures, seldom on par.
Tales of a vision-impaired, hearing-less dog,
An elegy to Cotton, the maltipoo monologue.