The old Daisy dog sleeps by the fireplace at night under an avalanche of curry-combed polar bear fur making rusty handsaw blade noises through the plank she pants and can’t make it down the front porch steps anymore to cool off, so she moseys to the backroom to eat the catfood and drink some shredded toilet paper water. Young Hoss Cartwright that Rottweilin’ hound chews on deer and elk bones carcasses in the front yard sun. He’s got a hole in every fence to forage by night for more roadkill, the hair on the back of his neck stands up when a pickup rounds the gravel bend in the road. Daisy reserves her barks to let us know when she wants to be let in at night. its her right as the reigning canine matriarch. I sit on the front steps rolling a cigarette and spilling some tobacco to the earth for the Indians smoking in the chill that hurts my lungs with a rush in my head that reminds me when I was a kid trying to swim clean across the lake, midway through green water, panicking and running out of steam roll over on my back to float the sky for a moment’s breath. Same water. Different lake. Same boy. Different currents. In this dog’s world.