There are other indignities I tolerate. The daily walk on a tug-of-war string, after going stringless my whole life. The attempts to train me. Like that’ll ever happen.
“We’ve got a meeting in twenty,” George tells a couple workers, Hank and Sonia, who groan. “Just a quick one. Going over contingency plans one last time, in case there’s any flooding.”
You have to look hard, maybe squint a little, but if you try, you can catch a hint of my inner wolf. It’s in the eyes, mostly. Also in my distinguished profile.
All that caring and concern is painful to smell. Especially the briny scent of the stray tear he’ll flick aside with the back of his hand like sea spray.