The dog is different now. He has developed a subtle yet more articulate language of long gazes and soft moans. Maybe not just expressions of pain but also the frustrating inability to fully express himself. These are of course, just my interpretations and perhaps too self-reflective. “What is it, buddy?” I ask him, “What is it?” It’s cancer and it is, as they say, aggressive.

I have been studying the foundations of this new language; the swollen mass at his knee joint, the odd little kick of his back leg in compensation when he walks. He finds little comfort in his bed or on the big chair near the window. Most often he is on the floor beneath my feet, the offending leg stretched out, displaying the bulge of the cancerous bone and now the patches of raw flesh, where he has licked it. The antibiotics and the pain killers are not really giving him much relief and it is probably time to say good-bye, but it is so difficult to imagine the dog self that is there, that life I love, extinguished. It has also become equally difficult to persist while he is so uncomfortable and in obvious pain. So, today we are maximizing the quality of our dwindling time together. I have decided that we will drive out to the island, we will go to the beach, the dog and me. The dog still eats although he has become selective, refusing those crunchy clots of colored kibble when there so many other tastier things to nibble. He can eat whatever he chooses. Chicken breasts and sugar cookies. We no longer concern ourselves with the opinions of others, with the recommended care and feeding of animal bodies. There are still fresh donuts at the bakery and all the enticements of the beach as a treat for the dog. The beach has always been our favorite place. What a joyful sight it was to see him, that leonine golden retriever flying to the water, then plunking himself down to sit in the waves. There wasn’t anyone who witnessed this who didn’t smile. We drive past the long rolling lawn of a house near the bay and there is a goose and a trail of goslings followed by another goose bringing up the rear and they are marching purposefully across the big wide lawn. I love the sway in the way they walk and the shift of the boats in the bay, the drift of the clouds in the sky and I am happy that we made the drive. The donuts make me wish that I had a cup of coffee so I pull in at the small island grocery in the weathered old house near the dock. There is a life size carved wooden bear wearing a straw hat and Mardi Gras beads on the front porch, a bench, a swing, flowers hanging in baskets and two old men in chairs talking. Up the

flat worn unpainted stairs, just inside by the creaky screen door there is the aroma of coffee and old wood. I would like to live on the island and exclusively shop here. I move carefully among the narrow aisles that are crowded with bins of fresh produce, coffee beans, bulk spices, smoked salmon and the island's own goat cheese. The coffee is piquant, as though the beans co-mingled with spices. It is good and it is hot and it is windier out on the beach than I would have imagined from inside the car. The wind and the waves have pushed the stones and driftwood into ridges piles that we have to navigate to reach the beach. The dog used to charge from the car and race to the water. Now he waits for me to point the safe way through the tangles. I am hardly the best leader, just as fully unsteady on my legs as he. The dog hunts a bit for sticks, but he doesn't run into the water like he used to and he gives up after a few attempts trying to snatch a stick from my hand. The game is just too much effort. We don't even try to walk very far against the wind which is pushing against our bodies, Out on the water, a tug with a huge barge is struggling, the waves rising up over the bow and bathing the boat in white froth, the forward movement almost imperceptible. A tanker coming from the opposite direction is just a dot on the horizon then suddenly looming over us and just as quickly slipping away, the wind in its favor. We huddle together in the precarious shelter of one of those driftwood assemblages people are so fond of making. The dog taps the paw of his swollen leg against my thigh until I lift his leg onto my lap and rest my hand on his knee. Why, loving him well enough I thought, did it take me so long to fully appreciate the depth of him? The dog sighs deeply and makes a soft, low articulation, resting his eyes on mine. I want to answer the dog equally in kind, so I return his earnest gaze until he closes his eyes.

-Aholaah Arzah

Aholaah Arzah received her MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard. Her poems, essays, short fictions, and visuals have appeared in a variety of publications including Short, Fast and Deadly, Crab Creek Review, elimae, Paper Tape, The Bellingham Review and ARC. Her essay "Ring Cycle" received Longshot Magazine's feature award. She lives in Port Townsend, Washington.