18. he'd be my writing companion.

if i had a dog, he'd cozy himself up on the faded floor rug beside my old desk (inherited from my father) and nap while i spent the day writing, inspired by the view from the large farmhouse window overlooking the hills behind the house. he'd look at me with gentle, pleading eyes for a taste of the tartine bread, warmed and buttered, or at least to sniff the steaming herbal tea, only to turn his nose from it. he wouldn't mind me spinning about in the aged wooden swivel desk chair, my head back, waiting for more writing inspiration to come down from the exposed-beams ceiling. he wouldn't mind suzy walking all over him, nudging him to play. this was not play time. this was writing time and he was there for me, supporting and encouraging me to keep with the tap-tap-tap on my keyboard, simply by way of his presence.

we'd take a break for walks over the hills, fresh air, visits to the barn to see the collect eggs from the chickens, rub the goats' noses, and kiss the jersey cow. life on the farm.

if i had a dog, we'd be happy there.