Otto on the Pumpkin Patch Patrol
In a patch where pumpkins swell and sprawl,
Lives Otto, the sheriff who watches it all.
A German Wirehair, proud and bold,
With a sniffer so keen and a heart of gold.
The sun's been cooking the earth to toast,
Even the scarecrow gave up the ghost.
Cicadas are screaming like tiny fans,
Like punk rock bugs in a marching band.
The pumpkins? Oh, they're out of control—
Ballooning like they’ve got a growth goal.
"We’ll hit a hundred!" the farmer declared,
As Otto just snorted, completely unimpaired.
He patrols with purpose, ears on high,
Scanning for threats with his squinty eye.
A squirrel? A crow? A rogue garden gnome?
Not on Otto’s watch—they’d better go home.
Yet even a hero must beat the heat,
So Otto seeks shade near the farmer’s seat.
He slurps from his bowl, all slobber and pride,
Tongue hanging out like a hammock wide.
He dreams of fall, when the harvest is done,
And he can chase leaves just for fun.
But till then he guards with noble flair,
Pumpkin Sheriff, with wiry hair.
So raise a paw for the pooch with a plan,
The patch protector, the squash-savvy man.
Otto the Pointer, brave and cool—
Defender of pumpkins. And also a pool. 🐾🎃
