The Black Dog

Sometimes it comes in the door like a feather on the shoulder of a shadow. Other times you turn and there it stands, or lies, or rolls over and plays you know what. Sometimes it’s a chihuahua, ridiculous, too stupid even for self-loathing. Other time’s it’s a Dane so great Hamlet pales, and if you try to walk it you end up dragged through the dirt, a bone ready for burial. Most of the time it’s a Bassett Hound, jowls and ears dragging the ground, and it casts no shadow, for your shadow covers it completely, until only its eyes remain, locking on yours until the dog enters you like dark steam, and you feel nothing, nothing at all.

- Don Stinson