Afternoons he’d poke his head through the gap the open window made. His dark eyes snapped. His spunky Van Dyke. He was waiting for me to come home, he longed for me, he lived for me. The white paint peeling from the window frame. Our little house snug as a cabin on a boat. 550 square feet. Beyond it the wide gray water of the lake where in the summer the voices clamored and the motors lugged and surged, and then the mountains, and the pass through the mountains.
That little dog still lives. I tell you: that little dog still lives.