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Humane Society By Bruce P. Spang The neighbor's pup, wanting in, won't let up. Yelp. Yelp. Yelp. This, the fourth night of its desperation. Our two cats huddle at the open window pretending to be sympathetic. Downstairs, the cuckoo pleads its shrill three-stress call. I can remember, shivering in my pajamas, calling out, again and again, Sandy Sandy Sandy drifting into blankness. Leave it alone. My wife would complain, Let it learn. It was not the dog I was calling, not then when my marriage could be counted in the three words we barked between us: it was my wanting out, there on the porch in the cold, waiting to hear how far my voice could carry across night fields. In wanting Out. |
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Document last modified on: 02/10/2004