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I want to be my dog

not just any dog, because I do know
many lives are hardscrabble or worse.
I want to be my dog, specifically,
with his almost exact life
though not so crowded with thinking,
and not when he has to pee outside
not when he gives in to insatiable urges—
to eat what falls on the floor,
lick any bare feet that wander by,
and certainly not when he sniffs my armpit
as if it is the most exotic perfume.
Nope. Not that dog.
I want to be my dog right now,
5 a.m., already back home from exploring the
fresh pre-dawn air, fed breakfast, told
how handsome I am, cuddled and praised and now
curled up on the couch in the still dark room
for a quick nap before sunrise
comfortable in my fur and muscle, my skin
relaxed, every part of me suffused
with fresh air and love

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