Bella Luna, fluff parade,
Snowball with a fashion grade,
Eight years old and still a star—
More fab than all Kardashians are.
A Maltese Bichon, soft and white,
She naps all day, she owns the night.
She guards the couch like it’s a throne—
Just try to move her. She won’t go alone.
She’s dressed in bows, she’s dressed in lace,
She’s got more outfits than your face.
Jennifer’s her glam squad pro,
Ponytails high—ready for show!
The elevator? Oh, beware!
She’ll bark like there’s a dragon there.
It’s not fear—it’s just her way
Of shouting, “Mom, NOT TODAY!”
She flings her ball like it’s a job,
Then waits for you, like, “Fetch it, Bob.”
Squeaky lamb gets daily stress—
She chews him up, then takes a rest.
Frozen baby carrots? Yes, please!
She munches like she’s royalty
And stares at you with eyes that say:
“Where’s my snack tray, human? Neigh!”
At Dyckman’s plaza, she’s the queen—
Paparazzi? She’s so serene.
Humans coo, dogs lose their cool,
Bella just yawns like, “I rule this school.”
She naps on armrests, beds, and knees,
She levitates with cuddly ease.
She sleeps with Mom, or maybe not—
Depends on mood. Depends on spot.
So here’s to Bella, boss of fluff,
She’s cute, she’s smart, and struts her stuff.
One bark, one bounce, one glamour pout—
She runs the world. Don’t ever doubt.
