Three little dogs,
twelve little feet,
one virginal beach,
as the tide moves out of reach.
Given no more than a few minutes
of running to and fro,
there is no part of the revealed sand
that doesn’t have a paw-print show.
Holes have been dug,
ragged rocks run ‘round,
and all can be discovered
from the tracks on the ground.
Three tired dogs,
twelve tired legs,
“We deserve a biscuit treat!”
the spokesdog says.