My dog is not a metaphor. 
She’s too busy bunny hopping through shrubbery
to bother with literary devices.
 
She has way more friends than me and gets more dates.
 
When we go for walks I love to watch her trot
on her stubby little legs, butt wiggling,
her tail, a tiny exclamation point.
When I lie down on the couch, hot and exhausted,
she stands on my chest, open mouthed,
and breathes her doggy breath in my face.
 
Molly sees with her nose and tastes with her eyes.
“Oh, shit! Squirrel tartare! “Rawrf, Rawrf! Arruu, rahru
arwww, uuuu, oooo. Yawp!”
Molly is Walt Whitman when it comes to squirrels.
Other times she is a yogi, lying on my bed
feet in the air, demonstrating relaxation techniques.
She calls this one “Dead Cockroach”.
 
She is not, exactly, a good dog.
She pulls on her leash, dragging me behind her.
She barks and snarls at other dogs.  She doesn’t like
other girls to make out with me, and will
get in between.  She brings home ticks.
Mom once called Molly an ass-wipe
and then apologized to her later.
 
On lonely Saturday nights
Molly will put on her human costume
and come with me to the movies. 
She is a tall, long legged blond
with a mane of curly hair.
She sits in everyone’s laps,
licks up spilled soda, eats popcorn off the floor.
When I scold her she says,
“Girl, you gotta get while the gettin’s good.
Plus, this is the best floor ever!”.
 
I go home with her anyways.
See? It’s just like they say.
If you allow gay marriage.
librarians will marry
their Jack Russel Terriers.
 
She is the furry weight always next to me.
She is the white hair on my black clothes.
I pet her wiry coat the way monks touch prayer beads.
At night she sleeps on my pillow, snoring softly.
Fierce little beast of solace.