A Man's Best Friend’s Master

I don't know what it is that is the matter with the man with whom I live?

To begin with he likes being known as my owner,

Or, rather as my master, if you please,

And though it is not that he considers me a servant,

But then I don't know why it is that each time that he pats my head,

He looks to see if my tail is wagging hard,

Or, each time that he whistles,

He expects me to immediately leave whatever it is that I am not doing,

And come running to him and start licking his hand.

Or, each time that he returns home from nowhere in particular,

He expects me to be excitedly jumping over him, as if I were a circus clown,

Or, each time that I happen to see anyone other than him,

He expects me to lose my mind barking unstoppably,

Or, to rather bite the innocent soul, if you please,

I don't know what it is that is the matter with the man with whom I live?

That though I am but ‘a dog’, each time that I do as he wishes of me, he calls me ‘a good boy’,

And that though he is but ‘my master’,

He likes it better, if you were to consider me ‘his best friend’.