His egg days were thrice a week

and somehow he could divine;
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

Just at eight, he would crouch near the kitchen,

– a chocolate-puff Chinese spaniel –

meditating on Sartre’s Being and Nothingness.
Sharp at eight, the cook would come out

with the egg, and place it in his bowl.

He proceeded with all dignity, slowly and gently,
sat close to it, legs stretched in a perfect yoga pose.
He drew it to the floor, held it tenderly

in between his paws and kept looking at it

– (we had counted, for two minutes at a stretch) –

savouring the beauty of the little orb.
His eyes, as if they had grown into a tongue, licking it

with all his being. He fondled it, played with it,

– a lover’s besotted craving.
He rested his head on his paws,

his choco brown fleece guarding his boon.
Then came the moment of revelation.
Golden moon emerged from the cloud.
Bingo sat still. A wistful sigh,

– you have to let all good things pass –

and he gulped the yolk
not letting it suffer the ignominy

of an eclipsed moon.
With the utter disdain of a monk
who knows the futility of the world,
he finished chewing on the white nothingness;
wagged his tail and languidly walked back

to his dog’s destined life.

He had left not a morsel behind, except,
as Mother used to say, –a lesson:
the art of savouring your boon!