“A cry
drifted along Walnut Street,
more mournful than any tears.
It rode a puff of breeze
into the bedroom
where Mark lay,
holding himself awake.
Bark! Bark! Bark!
A-wooooo-ooo-ooo!
Bark! Bark!
Awooo!
Mark popped up like a jack-in-the-box.
The cry came again,
thin and clear.
It sounded exactly like,
“Mark, Mark Mark.
I need yoooo-ooo-oou!”
Surely he was imagining things.”
―
Marion Dane Bauer,
Little Dog, Lost