There Are No Dogs in Western Massachusetts
The prized python slithered out of the broadcaster’s booth with my prized Pekinese. Muffled yapping was said to have been heard. A more or less average-looking gorilla gave chase after a more or less average-looking python. It was the least he could do and a small pleasure since it passed the time. Luminous skyscrapers faded to the luminous left and to the luminous right of the flagging gorilla hopping after the luminous snake—so many black and white shifts in cinema. What once seemed like a sizzle or a furor at the deep end of the laminated pool—now looked like not much more than a blind waitress treading water. A gentle breeze moved about the gentle days of gentle shovel and gentle crooked back. We drew our various breaths.
Aardvarks continued to work hard.
Corky, my prized Pekinese never bites the hand that looks dirty. In the fishing pond October last he made a ring and drowned in it. But before that, though little recovered from that snake in the grass, the lapdog molted and eventually lost all of its hair.