I like to believe
you’d come back. 

That given
the chance
to run 
your paws
would bound
through 
backyards
between 
houses 
pause for 
sprinklers 
play with
the golden
doodle
around 
the corner
the farthest
you’d go
without me
before you
remember
peanut butter
spoonfuls
snuggles 
sleeping
in bed
and Abra’s
ten-year-old
voice calling
your name–

I like to believe
you’d come home.