You

You with Your fatness and Your snorting.
Your spring spring spring down the stairs.
Your flying nun ears that perk whenever I say anything resembling
“treat,” “potty,” “outside,” or “walk.” (The devil’s words)
You are a bearskin rug when You lay on the kitchen tile.
You wiggle Your little butt when I coo at You and it’s a wonder You don’t fall over.
That is a lie, You have fallen over.
You are spoiled and I need to lift You on the bed because You are so fat, although it’s more of an awkward toss that luckily hasn’t missed yet.
You scare people because You are loud, which is silly.
You are afraid of lightening and hide in the closet under blankets.
You bring me my own stuffed animals, pillows, shoes, anything to greet me but refuse to give them back.
You were starved.
They thought You were worthless.
They left You on a Philadelphia Bridge
Alone.
They wished You dead.
We drove six hours to rescue You.
You were found.