Words

　　I'm a dog. I should tell you that right away. But I grew up with words. A poet named Sylvan found me at the shelter and took me home. He laid down a red rug for me by the fire, and I grew up to the clicking of his keyboard as he wrote.

　　He wrote all day. And he read to me. He read Yeats and Shakespeare, Jmaes Joyce, Wordsworth, Natalie Babbitt, and Billy Collins. He read me Charlotte's Web, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Morning Girl, and my favorite story, Ox-Cart Man. So I saw how words follow one another and felt the comfort of them.

　　I understand words, but there are only two who understand me when I speak. Sylvan told me this.

　　"Poets and children," said Sylvan. "We are the same really. When you can't find a poet, find a child. Remember that."

The Poet's Dog, P3-4
Patricia MacLachlan
ISBN 978-0-06-229262-9