The thing I spend the most time with is my dog, I have been feeling like a dog as a consequence. I want to be loved, to be pet, to be chased around, to be given treats, and for everyone to call me a good boy. Yes cute girl I am making eye contact with at this Munich café, please come over and tell me—a stranger, that I am a good boy in a heavy accent. Call me a “guter hund”. Can’t you tell by the way I am metaphysically wagging my imaginary tail that I want to interact with you? Fine. I wander over to you like I’ve known you my whole life. Please love me, please love me. Banter, banter, banter. I got your number. You smile. Positive reinforcement. I am a dog. Let me make you happy, but also make me happy. Parasympathetic relationship. Give me treats for the tricks I can perform. Let’s make out on your couch. Whisper sweet nothings to me in a language I do not understand, you could be reading me your grocery list for all I know. I am stupid, I am a dog. You are sweating and I’ll collapse on top of you with sweet salty kisses as I brush the bangs off your forehead so I can better trace your face with my fingers. You whisper in an exhausted voice “good boy” as you tussle my hair. Yes, I am a good boy. I am a dog. Hold me in your twig arms and let me rest my head on your supple Germanic thighs. Help me stop being human for a bit, let me be your dog. The moment is bliss, then in an instant it’s gone. I was your foster dog for the day, but you are done with me now. I am back on the street. I sonder back home. I retire to linen sheets and curl up into a ball. I am a dog. I want to be wanted. I am a dog.