Just Water
The neighbor Husky is off his porch again. He’s not mine but I feel guilty. I run after him and grab his collar, my fingers deep in short fur; then I see his dragging leash. He gets excited, thinks I’m taking him for a w-a-l-k, but I’m not. I’m taking him h-o-m-e. At the base of the stairs he stops at an ornamental fountain, and I wait while he laps and laps until the water is gone. I push at his big soft body so he’ll go up to the porch. Up there, his water bowl is dry. He looks at me, his eyes big and brown, hoping I’ll change my mind. I thread his leash under a chair leg. I’m not your mom, I say. But I have this unshakable feeling that I am responsible for him and for all the other hims that I know.
Alisa Golden writes, makes art, and edits Star 82 Review in a one-square-mile northern California city. https://neverbook.com | https://www.star82review.com