This Sleeping Dog on my Couch.

He lies there, as only a true lounger can,
Without a care in the world,
He presumes nor expects nothing,
About the struggles faced by his masters,
Though we are his world.
He lives and dies at our whim,
And cares not.
Our love sustains him,
We feed him and pet him,
As he endures bathing and reprimands,
Yet sleeps soundly in his lack of control,
Losing nothing, effected not,
Oblivious to our trials.
Untroubled by his.
He lives only to live,
Our pleasure is his joy and reward;
An atta-boy, a treat, or a toy,
Is all he needs to be content.
Selfish and selfless are one and the same,
Yesterday has been forgotten,
Tomorrow’s a lifetime away.
Shaking my head, I wonder;
What dream makes his paws twitch?
Could his life be the existence we seek?
So primal, so simple…
Where we are plagued by not having control,
Willingly relinquishes his,
Unburdened by pride,
Not by choice, I think, just does.
Shamefully I envy this sleeping beast,
Holding down the cushions of my couch.
Without it, he’d sleep in my chair,
Or on the bed,
Or fully content upon the floor.
Happy to just sleep…to live,
This sleeping dog on my couch.