When I first rescued Mother Whisper from the pound,
she was as shy as a numbat and barely made a sound.
In Cathie’s arms she was cradled, cuddled and coaxed.
Eventually, nobody dared to declare her bark hoaxed.
Mother Whisper’s rampaging libido knew no bounds,
she could’ve escaped Alcatraz to track randy hounds.
There was musicality in her furry rascals squeaking,
their squealing racket was truly a form of speaking.
Mother Whisper’s swift tongue was a guiding hand,
to streams of life giving milk, in extreme demand.
Her growl warned that she was intensely protective.
Mr Five Nostrils forgot her pups off limits directive.
However high and imposing the surrounding fences,
Whisper dreamt of wild, solo sniffathon adventures.
Harry Houdini wasn’t that adrenaline junkie’s left paw.
It was a fact no magician worth their salt could ignore.
But a rope long enough for her to roam, sealed her fate.
Whisper was found hanging from the palings too late.