conditioner was on, but after some whining I got him to lower the window. I had my head out and we’d been on the road for no more than twenty minutes when we came upon a burning building. It was a house, three stories tall, with a low brick wall around it. The owner pulled over, and before he could stop me I jumped over the seat and joined him on the grass. Had my wife been with me, he’d have forced us back into the car, but I’m pretty reliable, even without a leash. Besides, I make him look good, much more interesting than he actually is.
A small crowd had begun to gather, encircling a barefoot woman with sweatpants on. As we moved closer, I saw that she was holding a dachshund, the type with long hair. Everyone watched as she pushed back his ears, repeatedly kissing his forehead while he twisted and begged to be let down. It was only when an old man arrived and gathered the woman in an embrace that the dog broke free. He and I got to talking, and I learned he was the single thing this woman had reached for when she smelled the smoke and realized that her house was on fire. “Which is nice and everything, don’t get me wrong,” the dachshund said, “but she’s got a teenage son in there.” He gestured toward a second-floor window with black smoke pouring out of it. “He and his mother were constantly at each other’s throats, but he was always nice to me, poor kid.”
The dachshund let out a sigh, and as the woman reached down to snatch him back up, I caught a glimpse of the poor guy’s future. I could have saved anything, and I chose you.
Who wants to live with that kind of pressure?
As I wished him good luck, the firemen arrived. A group of three headed toward the house and were almost there when a part of the roof collapsed. Sparks shot into the darkening sky, and as they sputtered down to earth, I caught the scent of burning flesh and realized how hungry I was. With any luck the owner would stop on our way home and buy us each a hamburger wrapped in paper. Then, smelling of smoke and ketchup, I’d return to my hangdog wife and continue the long business of loving her.
The Crow and the Lamb
The crow was out one morning, looking for something to eat, when she spotted a newborn lamb suckling in the field below. Sheep, she thought. What I wouldn’t give for a life like that. The mother spits out a baby and then she just lies there doing nothing while it feeds itself. No nest to build, no spending every rotten moment searching for food, and even then it’s never enough.
On top of that, birds had to be homeschooled, not like sheep or cows, who learned junk from one another. “It takes a village,” they liked to say, not that there was much to learn in the first place. You lower your head, and food goes in. Raise your tail, and it comes out. The eating part, they had down, but the rest, forget it. Crap smeared from one end of their bodies to the other. Where was the fucking village when it came to cleaning themselves? That’s what the crow wanted to ask. Oh, they moaned about the insects—flies lighting on their faces all day—but news flash: flies go where the shit is, so if you don’t want them clustering on your forehead, clean it! God, these grazing animals were stupid, which was not altogether a bad thing.
After circling a few times, the crow landed in the pasture and pretended to pick at something in the grass. The old ewe looked her over for a moment, then returned her attention to the newborn, who was receiving the first and probably the only bath of its life. “Cute kid,” the crow called out. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
The ewe sighed in the way of all parents who expect their baby’s sex to be obvious. “He’s a boy. My second.” Normally she was more sociable, but something about birds put her off—their uselessness, she supposed.
“Well, he’s an absolute lamb, if you don’t mind my saying so,” the crow said, and she hopped a bit closer. “Tell me, was it a natural childbirth?”
The ewe had wanted to remain aloof, but what with the subject matter—that is to say, herself—she found