A Whiff of Christmas
The sniffer dogs have caught a whiff of Santa,
A mix, perhaps, of reindeer dung and spice,
Diluted by a cold and watery odour,
A snowy smell, like slowly melting ice.
The thing they’re most concerned about is whether
The old man has some presents fit for dogs:
Biscuits, bones and other tasty morsels;
At the very least, some chewy yuletide logs.
But Santa pats their heads and sends them packing.
“Ho ho ho,” he says, “you know the golden rule:
I shan’t come down your chimney till you’re sleeping –
It’s the same for dogs as any boy or girl.”
The sniffer dogs lick Santa’s hand, tails wagging,
As with one sad backward glance they set off home.
On Christmas Day they won’t be disappointed:
They’ll each wake to find a brand new juicy bone.