Rusty

My father had
A rather temperamental
Irish Setter
Named Rusty
There in Las Vegas,
And he was a desert dog
If there ever was one.
We would walk out
Across the foothills,
And he would excitedly
Run off to either side
As far as he could go
Before he lost sight of us,
And then he would charge back
Crisscrossing the trail we were on,
Before heading off
In the other direction.
That dog would keep that up
All day long in the hot desert sun
Without a break.
There was nobody,
Neither man nor beast
Who loved the desert
More than he.
Rusty never liked
Being left along though,
And he was given
To fits of chewing
When left by himself
In the house.
One of our couches
Suffered the brunt
Of his frustrated attacks.
What I also remember
About him was how
He was the ideal height
To rest his head
On the dinner table
When we were eating,
And his eyes would follow
Every mouthful
Trying to make us feel
Guilty for eating
While he impatiently starved.