Dear Earth, We Are Killing the Animals and Incinerating Ourselves

by | Jan 15, 2022 | Robert Vaughan - January Day 2

Dog days, my grandma used to call them, tattered end of a summer that hung on too long after it should have, a murderous furnace of days. Think cold, she’d say while we sat out front. Think of snow and the dim white of a bone moon in December. Dog days, the old mutt lying doggo on the kitchen linoleum, fur rug to step around on the way to the icebox where my grandpa kept his bottle of vodka. August water, he called it, a tall glass or two to grease his tongue. The bastards he worked for, bunch of rich assholes. Wouldn’t piss on ’em if their hearts were on fire. The fog of vodka, the fire of it. Dog days, he said. Every damn day a dog

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