When Mutual of Omaha supported
nature shows, it spared us sex and gore.
We stared as peacocks preened and rhinos courted,
then later saw the litters—nothing more.
The mother wombats would protect their young
(just as insurance agents do for you)
and Marlon would relax while Jim’s life hung
in balance, for their dartgun’s aim was true.

I watch new nature shows now with my spaniel.
She wags her tail as jackals disembowel
the wildebeest of The Discovery Channel,
then warns off flapping vultures with a growl.
Her rapture grows until the carnage stops,
then she considers me, and licks her chops.

originally appeared in Paris Review