This is the worst of times.
I, a single dog in possession
Of a particularly dirty tennis ball,
Am in want of you.  

I wanted to play yesterday,
And the larks, bravely singing,
Flew away when I called.
Et tu?

I bark the knell of your funeral  
Bells, bells, bells,
Nevermore to hear you call,
“Treats for the sweet!”

I pled with you not to go out—
You’ll never return to take Spot out
Or take out, out, the spot  
on the carpet. Oops.

I wander as all who are lost
Around the legs of the kitchen table.
I imagine I can still hear the car engine
And your keys.

But, soft as my tail,
What light through yonder door
Breaks? It’s you, shining
Like the sun! Oh fluffjous day!

You’ve had your exits, but
Your entrances! You’re like a  
Phoenix (that’s a type of mailman),
Returning when I least expect.

Your death was a…
Literally illusion?
That’s the things you say  
That don’t make sense.

True to your own self,
You’ve come back to me.
I’ll run for miles and miles around  
Your legs before I sleep.