I got a bowl, it is made of marble. The name of the Pope is me-ee-ee.

I got a bowl, that I push all over. I got a robe that is made of mink. Is it made of mink? I really don’t know, but I know it looks good on me-ee-ee.

Pope is a job that I get to have now. Pope is the job everybody loves. They see me in my robe and they love to kiss me. Baby boy Pope in the big extreme!

Here now, thank you all for coming. Please feel free to sit on the floor. You have made a wise decision for Pope, the big job. Mister Maximus. I push my bowl with nose or paw and watch it slide smoothly on the marble floor, polished daily with wax by a holy woman or man. I nod my head and am satisfied because I see that it is good.

Pope ball! A new era has dawned on earth as a dirty tennis ball rolls silently down the halls of the Vatican, chased closely by my butt, sliding on the satisfyingly slick floors as I try to take a corner too quickly and feel my padded feet lose their traction, sending me rump-first into the base of an important statue. Indelible is the mark I have left on this great institution. Marks made by untrimmed nails sliding at high speed over freshly polished marble floors. Marks made by parties. Marks made by cake. My dinner every day: cake! And none shall say a word of disapproval as I lap it luxuriously out of a grail of great historic provenance. None shall tell me to cut my nails.

I’m the boss here!


Done up in my finery I advance to the altar of altars. The altar of holy altars that I stand upon and no one else is allowed to. A tilt of my chin sends underlings scurrying for snacks. A raise of my eyebrow notifies the world of my fun presence. Draped elegantly across my back is white Pope outfit that could not possibly fit me in a million years. It drags behind me as I waddle through the blessed halls, making an unmistakable swishing sound that many choose to ignore in deference to my powers. I know that it does not fit but I think it looks good. My body small and round and my robe big and white, I cut a fine figure in the walls of the church house. Yes ladies, I see you looking but don’t touch me—holy booty coming through!

Cross of bone, hear my prayer. Cross of jerky, come to me. Chew chew chew, upon the cross.

My water is holy as is my poop. Just another day as the Pope and boss! For I was given the world and yet I have forsaken that. Gently I abandoned my luxurious toys and ascended to a higher plane. Dropping my stick as all gaze in admiration, I slip into my fine Pope hat and step with grim determination upon the high and gilded chair, aided by my blessed portable step ladder in deference to my stumpy appendici. I have a bed made in the shape of crown. They had to make it to my specifications. Around here, I am in charge. My power is not one of might but of piety, and pie.

Love me! Love me! Love me!

Love me! Love me! Love me-ee-ee!

A Dog is an occasional columnist. Every blessed encyclical may be found at Dog.Gawker.com.