Please tell me that it doesn't matter
that my ear is bent, leaning
like a limb broken from its tree,
an envelope permanently closed.
I know you chose me, rescued
me when my parents could no longer
care for me. You thought I looked
like the Westie you'd always imagined.
I'm still the same boy, just slightly
used, a bit arthritic, maybe too fat.
And sure, my face is usually stained
from nosing the scent of squirrels
I feel I must rid from your yard.
If you look at me from my good
side, you'll see. I'm just as
adorable as any Westie can be.