looking down at pilot on the bare linoleum, my husband said we should place him back on the blanket. i was expecting a little groan, a moan, resistance, the weight of a sore old dog, but he was limp, light as a feather, like a bird that had knocked into a window, lying on the lawn. in shock, i left them and went to pay. i asked them to throw in a bag of food for scout, at home in her crate, keening. above us the morning moon faded, pain came towards us. we put ourselves right in its path.
Laurel Parry lives and writes in Whitehorse, Yukon, on the traditional territories of the Kwanlin Dün First Nation and the Ta’an Kwäch’än Council. Instagram and X: @auntieolo.