What would I not give. For a lick on the hand, a woof in my ear, a jump and a sudden sprint, a total menace prancing around my toes; nibbling at my ankles, eating away the furniture, running away with the remote, barking like a dog. With the tongue lolling, and the ears crooked, see him running about in circles trying to catch his own tail and a sudden jump on the sofa - and the scared guests. What would I not give. For a bark asking me to take him for a walk, for crazy fights with horrible neighbors, or plain simple showing him off. What would I not give, to have you come home once more. In a little basket may be, as you once did. And to know that you are mine. What would I not give. For your heartbeat that was always so fast, and those paws ever so soft. What I miss about you most are the things I feel I have lost. I want a dog. I want a dog.
