My dog Luna, upon listening to me practice my bassoon

Swee-da Rhee-da Wee-da Wah-da

Swee-da RHee-da Wee-da Wad-DAMN

Really? Again? Shouldn’t a human her age know her whole tone scales by now? What has she been doing with her time? This is the fifth night in a row that she’s worked on that passage.

She should stick to the Baroque and Classical stuff anyway, she’s better at it.

Swee-da Rhee-da Wee-da Wah-da

Swee-da RHee-da Wee-da Wad-da

Her F-sharps are out of tune. I’ll go tell her. Plod plod plod. I’ll sit here nicely until she notices me.

“Hi Luna, what’s up?” Pet pet pet, head kiss.

NO you idiot, I didn’t want to get pet, your F-Sharps are out of tune! Don’t you know I have better ears than you do!?!


Oh no, not the metronome. It hurts my brain. She needs the tuner anyway.

Clack clack clack clack, sniff sniff.

“Luna NO, get away from my bassoon.”

But it smells so good. It’s older than the sticks in the yard, reminds me of beer and bratwurst somehow. I really want to lick it, maybe even chew on it. She puts it in her mouth, why can’t I?

Sweeeee-daaaa Rheeeee-daaaa Weeeee-daaaa Waaaah-daaaaa

You know, she is so busy blowing into the big noisy stick, she might not notice if I curled up on her pillow… hmmm. Oh man, it’s so much softer than my bed, and it smells like drool! I’ll add some of my own, so later she’ll know I’ve been here.

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