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Culture: Stories & Lit
The Great Unwashed
Poem
My golden retriever, four years old, has not yet learned to swim. He is standing chest-deep on the edge of a green, rippling pool on the West Fork of Cold Spring. The sandstone floor of the pool slopes into the deep end, but he stays rooted in the shallows, even though an encouraging lifeguard stands by in the person of his patient owner. Come on, I say. Fetch! I say. The stick floats in...