Good Enough

My dog Buddy hacks and coughs
like he's about to spit up a lung.
He licks himself in public,
and scratches rambunctiously at imagined fleas,
and the back door, and his dinner dish.
He shits on our lawn and in the boulevard.
And we hover round,
our inverted plastic bags at the ready
to whisk away his logical conclusions
while he trots on.
In his world poop ain't worth wiping your ass over.
He growls and yowls at every passing footstep,
and howls when I sing off key.
He's a nuisance underfoot, and an expense.

But that's okay.
Because in Buddy's eyes I'm good enough.
I'm not a screw-up or a pack of lies.
I'm not a suit with a mismatched tie...
He's a dog, he's colour blind!
Even my driving passes the test.
I'm idolized.
He doesn't read or criticize.
Or measure the weight I'm pulling.
There's nothing about me that he hates.

It's okay, man, he says with adoring eyes.
You're good enough.
All I want for now
is a kind word
and a hand that strokes my fur
in the right direction.