My master wonders what I think
The times he sees me lying here.
He wonders if I’ve ticks and fleas
Each time he sees me scratch my ear.

And when I sleep and kick my feet
He wonders if it is a dream
Of maybe chasing cottontails
Or treeing coons down by the stream.

If I could talk, I’d let him know
The answer that he seems to seek;
The thing that occupies my thoughts,
“What makes my rubber dog bone squeak?”