My Little Pluto

At forty-five days old, with pride he strode,

A glossy black coat, a tail that wiggled and glowed.

He thought himself the prince, in our home he’d reign,

And all of life’s rhythm, he’d gladly claim.

He believed we were his parents, the boys his kin,

Together they’d wrestle, together they’d spin.

He’d bark if things weren’t just right in his view,

Always so quick to complain and pursue.

The beds are ours, but the couch is his domain,

He claims three-quarters, while we share the remaining grain.

His own bed, he’d shun, preferring ours with a glance,

Always comparing to his human brothers' stance.

Drives are his joy, the front seat his throne,

He sits with a posture, so regal, so known.

He owns the road, as if it’s his father’s grand right,

Demanding respect with his confident might.

Birthdays are magic, cakes make him beam,

The birthday song is a favorite dream.

He’s our bundle of joy, our purest delight,

Bringing happiness to our days and our nights.