Come see the moon, she says. So I go. The backyard is quiet
and dark, private and wild. The dog nudges me with her nose.
You’re drinking too much, she says, her eyes locked on mine,
her long tail wagging slowly. It’s getting sloppy, she adds.
She’s a purebred. She was expensive, but I wanted children and
I wanted dogs and one was allergic to the other. Wants can be managed,
though. My dog says, You need to cut down. Get yourself back to normal.
I shrug. I look up and realize I don’t actually see the moon. She puts
her head in my lap and I stroke her ears, soft between my fingers.