I scrolled through the news while my cereal softened. A war widened. A politician denied something. A celebrity apologized. I read the headlines twice, searching for a reason to click one open, but never found one. I remembered my cereal. I looked down and was surprised to see the spoon in my hand. I couldn’t remember picking it up.
My attention shifted out the window. A stray dog cased the tree line. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him, but it had been a while. Sometimes he showed up in the mornings. Sometimes closer to dusk. Once I spotted him motionless in a field, like he’d forgotten where he was going. Another time he trotted down the road with such purpose I assumed he had a home. But he was always alone.
When I saw him, he moved at an uneven pace. He stopped and put his nose to the ground, walked a bit more, stopped again. He stared into the woods. I thought maybe he’d heard something. Then he disappeared into the underbrush. I waited. A rustle. A flash of fur. But the woods kept quiet. I waited a little longer, hoping something might move. Nothing did.
I refreshed the news. Same stories, different order. I looked back at the tree line. Still no sign of the dog. The woods gave nothing away. Tomorrow morning I’ll do it again. I’ll sit with my cereal. The headlines will have changed, but they’ll still be the same.
The dog, though. I might see him. And I might not.
Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Flash Flood, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Halfway Down the Stairs. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.