Jake the baby Leonberger owns the streets,
one lick of his tongue can demolish a large ice cream cone,
one paw could squash a politician’s promises;
in a couple of months he will have his own postal code.
His drool could irrigate a hundred dry lawns:
don’t think about his other functions!
His pawprints in soft spring mud are deep meteor craters.
Some mornings we wake dreaming of earthquakes
but it is only Jake galloping down to the park,
knowing that he himself is a force of nature;
too large for most houses, breeders decimated by war,
a breed hated by Hitler, almost wiped out,
his breed lived through the Holocaust and survived it,
behind his eyes is an infinite wisdom and sadness.