Give an Inch

Through the sliding door brown eyes are pleading.
We steel ourselves and try to be unheeding.
Inside, a friendly fire, the room is warm.
Outside, the bitter wind precedes a storm.
But still those eyes are silently beseeching
Their mute reproaches to our conscience reaching.
We let her in though not a household pet.
She showers her thanks, and water, since she’s wet.
Thank goodness for the thirsty mat beside the door.
“Here’s where you stop,” we say. “Not one inch more.”
A futile hope. We find that in an hour or so
She’s crept, by stages, right up to the glow
And sprawled, displacing us the warmth to hog.
Which is a cheek for she’s our neighbour’s dog.