a dog with a woman

I’m dying for a little nap.
Why won’t she put me in her lap?
She wants a portrait? She can pose.
Her perfume irritates my nose.
I’m sick of staring straight ahead.
I’m contemplating playing dead.
I’ve had some time to plan the show:
A snappy “death” or extra slow?
With twitching paws and rolling eyes?
Imagine the bewildered cries,
The falling brush, the spilling paints,
The artist swears, the lady faints,
I land into her lavish lap…
But will they let me have my nap?
And will they give her smelling salts?
And just like that the notion halts
My rich imagination. Fine.
Defeat is softening my spine.
Posterity will sympathize
With my resigned unfocused eyes,
My dangling paws, my lifeless tail.
I've missed my only chance to nail
The liberating bold affair
Of playing dead up in the air:
An epic masterpiece, a feat
Of artistry that’s hard to beat.
But not a soul will be agog
To see a woman with a dog.


Jean Honore Fragonard, A Woman with a Dog, ca. 1769