A streak of black, a stripe of brown,
Low to the earth yet queen of the town.
Freeda the dachshund, tiny but bold,
With eyes full of mischief and courage untold.
Her ears flop wide when the ball appears,
A signal of joy, of wiggling cheers.
She trembles with focus, tail like a drum—
Throw it once, and watch her run.
Across the grass on lightning legs,
Past garden stones and chair-table legs.
A blur of fur, a flash so fast,
Determined the ball won’t outrun her at last.
She skids and spins with triumphant pride,
Ball in her mouth she comes back wide-eyed.
“Again!” she insists with a hopeful stare,
Dropping the treasure with dramatic care.
Black and brown with a heart so big,
Part hunter, part clown, part wiggly jig.
Freeda, the legend, the backyard star—
Ball in her mouth, she’s gone too far.
Yet when the sun sinks low in the sky,
And chasing the ball has finally run dry,
She curls like a comma, warm and small—
Dreaming, no doubt, of the next great throw of the ball.
Thank-you for reading,
Brenda Marie
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