My Birthday Gift
 
The rug was white, was white I know
As bright a white as sun splashed snow.
 
A gift it was from mother dear.
She does not know what happened here.
 
I guessed what would and flash a smile
For even I was in denial.
 
Footprint smudge or piece of kibble,
Chicken soup chins, ferret dribble.
 
These I felt would meet out fate.
But in one day it was too late.
 
For on my gift of carpet white
was such a work I drew the light
 
And beckoned it to shine on bright:
My birthday gift a speckled sight.
 
'Twas not a kibble did consume
that glorious carpet in my room.
 
But substance splattered, dozens laid.
My ferrets birthday gifts displayed.
 
As though the fabric begged its fate
My loved ones flocked to defecate.
 
The rug was white-was white, I swear.
Where now the floor is dark and bare.
 
But all around me laughter reigns:
Queen of all the ferret stains.
[Posted in FML issue 3550]