TELL IT TO THE YAPPY NEIGHBOR DOGS
I watch my father at the fence-line tenderly attend to the dogs next door. It’s curious because they’re usually non-stop pitched ballistic, driving everyone and everything away. Penny, hulking and deeply bellowed, would go at them in spurts but tire at the breakneck whine, retreat to the southern side of the house with its back turned to the tumbleweed rabble. I would not describe my father as a calming presence but he resembles a mystic in the fading sun. When he returns to the house, I ask him what he was doing, sounding more accusatory than I want. They’re looking for her, he says. They deserve to know, and he pauses now like he needs to tell me, Penny’s gone. I can feel myself wanting to rage. I turn my back to him; return to the pile of dishes at the farmhouse sink.