I lost my dog, my dog, my dog, a spanish pompradorian mixolydian maltese penta-terrier. (That is to say, a pequeña puppita, purchased for a pretty penny and probably poorly trained, but I wouldn’t know I’m just dog sitting). We were walking through eagle’s swoop stack, a grove of trees near the town of wolves-eat-here where I’m told foxes first evolved. At the owner’s insistence, I walked the dog, who’s name is Cinderella, off-leash so that the poor three pound perra doesn’t have her windpipes crushed. There we found ourselves in the magical woods, which were maybe a little menacing, the manic magpies being plucked from the maples by hawks and the sort wasn’t adding much to the environment. But we walked on anyway, mute to the mises of mercy calling “Turn around! That dog is a rotisserie waiting to rotate! Small dogs die quite quickly here!” because apparently this route is Cinderella’s favorite place to walk. With good reason it seems— when we got back in the car the dog wasn’t white, more of a murky red… and the trees were considerably quieter.
