I house-broke her myself, sleeping with one hand on the floor so she could lick it to wake me
when the time came; it didn’t take her long, she was a quick study. I stood on the grass beside
her, not minding too much the divots she kicked up to cover her work or the dead spots blooming
like lymphomas along the fence line. The moon was larger then, it seemed, filling the yard with a
clean light uncommon in the oppressive depths of August. There’s no licking now, nothing
wakes me before time; I sleep through the night, and wish there was some peace in it.