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It was Sunday, likes not seen in awhile,
Sunny, warm, with springtime hues.
The dogs and cats were eager to try
Playing games and chase in people style,
Dancing without their winter shoes
Underneath the vivid sparkling sky,

Until their dear mother lost her sweet smile,
When suddenly her balance got misconstrued.
Like Rocket J. Squirrel, she seemed to fly;
It seemed as if she had dived half a mile,
And when she hit, the truth she knew,
“I can’t get up!” her worrisome sigh,
Despite critters nosing a “Come, let’s dance!” push.

Of course this fate was now a trial,
With firemen, ambulance, and hospital voodoo.
Twenty-four hours she lay there on stand by,
Then doctors inserted hardware from their stockpile
To hold her together with plates, bolts, and screws,
And a line wrought with staples to help beautify

The scar twice as long as the river called Nile,
(Held partly together with Super-type Glue),
That conceals, not so well, what now underlies
Beneath black and blue skin, a rather versatile,
State of the art (that will never undo)
Contraption so hip, and little bit sly—
Her brand new titanium, tire-iron tush!