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Stories & Lit
Musings on the world's oldest friendship in personal essays, memoirs, fiction, classics and, of course, humor.
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by Janet McCann
IF NO OTHER LISTENER
Except myself and the dogs, would I write
Poems for them?
Rhythmic yips and a growl,
Refrain of woofs,
Their names repeated twice,
A high yowl sliding down a rail
To a quavering whine.
And they do like some arrangements
Better than others, they go from fast to slow.
Lots of range in the howl,
And the yaps, staccato, snappy as orders,
Until I can’t continue their poem
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by Abigail Thomas The dogs are my early-warning system. I have three hounds and a small scamp of indeterminate heritage. All rescues. They bark. They bark at people walking dogs. They bark at people not walking dogs. They bark at kids on bikes. They howl at deer, rabbits, squirrels and phantom creatures I can neither hear nor see. They usually stop after a few minutes and return to the house, but one afternoon, like Saint Teresa at prayer, they barked without ceasing. |
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by Lucie Britsch One of the worst things I have ever witnessed was my dog being hit by a car. I don’t have a kid, and I imagine that would be a million times worse, obviously, but I do have dogs. I don’t dress them up in outfits, much, or let them share my ice cream, often, or call them my child, unless they’re doing something particularly impressive, so I’m not one of those “Real Housewife” people just yet. |
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by Melissa Fay Greene A German Shepherd mix slated for euthanasia watched Karen Shirk from behind the bars of his cinder-block cell in a cacophonous county animal control building. With his long black muzzle and imploring brown eyes, he looked at her with that heartbreaking shelter-dog mix of worry, fear, confusion, and hope. “This is a good-looking boy. Do you know anything about him?” Karen called from her wheelchair to a nearby worker. “Can he sit? Can you sit, boy? Sit.” |
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by Mat Zucker A YEAR INTO RAISING OUR PUPPY, Nora Ephron, Brian and I can’t help but compare it to our experience with our first dog, Ezra Pound. Nora and Ezra, black Lab mixes, were named after 20th-century writers. Their personalities, though, are quite different, starting with their experiences and lifestyles. |
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by Eliza Thomas When I tell my dog that she is my angel, as I often do, I mean it quite literally. In many ways she is more familiar to me than anyone or anything else on earth, and she has filled my life with great affection, guarding and protecting me with her love. I suppose she could be any old dog, and I’d love her back just the same. But there she is, who she is, and however I look at her, she is a major part of my life. This is by no means the first tribute I have written to her. |
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by Annika Powell Paradise On September 1, 2001, I peered into Afghanistan from the very small corridor that touches the Chinese border. Working for a student travel company, this trip along the Chinese portion of the ancient Silk Road had reached its westernmost point. Tomorrow we would retrace our path back eastward to Beijing, to board our plane back to the States on September 11. Life was following its trajectory to extreme and far flung adventure. I had been out of the country on various assignments for nearly two months – time to come home. |
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by Ben Spencer My Boxer puppy is allergic to bees.
I found out as I barreled home from work on I-580 East toward the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge one recent afternoon.
Cali—short for “California”— goes to work with me every day. One moment, she was a spry, energetic, sporty Boxer; the next, vomit everywhere, bile and diarrhea all over the passenger seat. I accelerated, crossed two lanes of traffic and pulled onto a wide shoulder just off the exit to the bridge. |
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