Daisy Contemplates the Dog Days
The leaves, the grass, all parched though rain just last night fell and swelled in rivulets along each window’s rutted sill. Daisy’s here surveying it: her belly full, her eyes half-closed, her kingdom mostly imagined in these dog days too hot to walk our noontime route. Mostly she sleeps, waiting to go on drives: Sonic, Bob’s Garage, the park where we run a little anyway, the heat balanced by freedom’s novelty—a short off-lead experiment she fled. I’ll never know those minutes she did not heed my call, but yielded, as she has not since, to wilder urges, hound-deep, intense as her wooded gaze at the blue jays making sport among our trees with wings she doesn't have except in dreams and in those moments when she flies alone along her blood’s oldest track.
Here's Where I Was When I Almost Missed The Ferry - Wendy Fox
He says, as though it were an accomplished fact, like the papers you've filed with the County Clerk, like the new lease you've signed in another city. He says, "You'll come running back to me as soon as you have to clean your own bathtub." Which let's you know, right then, the exact breed and nature of the contempt he's had for you all these years. You see its ears perk up from behind his right shoulder. You see its muzzle and its long pink tongue. You know it has grown fat on the small kindnesses you've accepted. You know every flaw you've shown has dropped into the bowl from which this quiet creature feeds. When it comes forward, nuzzles your hand and fawns to have its belly rubbed, you remember all the times you've fed it yourself, held it close, nourished it as your own. So you do what you must. Bend over its sleek head. Kiss its wet nose. Tell it to stay. To keep him company. Then you turn. Then you walk away.