Scooby Doo learned to read at the age of birth,

his mother having liked to flop soundlessly and listen

by the door of Feynman's Pasadena lecture hall

where physics hyperfluxed most days of the week.
The Great Dane learned from her mental notes

given as licks
a grasp of information geometry enough

to extract the most likely positions of his feet

when he first stood.

Most dogs would call it a night

after proposing a theory of quantum gravity

which was shot down

for sounding gimmicky on the same line of voice synthesizer

Stephen Hawking had jammed on.

Scooby Doo was briefly a rock star,

creating several rabid hits

which in the interim both supported his suddenly large family

(cared for in a tranquil Transylvanian castle by Mrs. Doo,
who composed all his best riffs)

and spawned a new species,

the Scoobydooicus fanaticus,

which horded much like a

puffy timbery technicolor cloud of locusts.

In a split particle of analysis

the purebred intellect saw that the real work

was in running fast. If you grew up in the late 20th century,

you may've thought bubbles of tomb earth

only a convention. They are in Doo's favorite pastime

his dismantled body on its way to Pluto, a dwarf skipping stone

owned by the eponymous legend,

for a chew on bone caviar and a shot of oaky cigar breeze.

Thence might as well galumph he under time dilation to the next scene after

skedaddling holograms of him and Shaggy.

For that matter, it's hard to say

how old he is now when you meet him:

not only has he charted every cell in his body

and scattered his yowls like a pack of cards on the spacetime continuum,

but he is surely a hound of all ages,

smiling, frowning mild con-

sternation, vocalizing, or shivering,

depending on an observer's personal history...

Because this takes quite an effort to do at once, he

revs his time camera days or years after a fact—

having earmarked the occasion—

and dips into history for tracing an

angle, another take. In the future, watching himself on TV,

very old now by choice, at least for an afternoon,

he looks in the pocketed surface of a glass century.