Our dog, dachsund-and-chihuahua, fell redly to us from her family tree. After the usual medical exam, shots, spaying, and licensing, she was with us for 17 years. But one day in her middle age, we had just finished dinner and were eating fruit, and someone gave her a dark purple plum. Instead of immediately eating it, though, she gently carried it away. Later, we saw that she had chosen a place apart to lie down with it. There she lay on her side, with the plum lying in the place a puppy would if it were nursing. If any of us made a motion to remove it, she would raise her head, bare her teeth, and growl. The plum went with her wherever she went, for three weeks. Her nipples even appeared to have swollen. Eventually, the plum became wrinkled, covered with lint, and riddled with tiny inadvertent toothmarks. Then she carried it to a corner, set it down, walked away, and mourned for several days.

 

Michael Nickels-Wisdom has written minimalist poetry since 1990 and very short prose since 2011. Some of his short prose has appeared in World Haiku Review, A Hundred Gourds, and Scifaikuest. He is retired after 38 years’ service in a public library in the Chicago suburbs.