My labrador, Dosh, waits. I throw. Released, she grabs it mid-air, showing off, then returns. I throw again; she’d retrieve forever.
If I could, just once, experience the joyous muscle-music I witness when Dosh clamps her jaws around a soggy tennis ball, I could face anything in this challenging world.
Sarah Flick wrote this story.
Passing through our peanut butter and jelly kitchen, she’d shoot some words at me before grabbing her movie star sunglasses and hurrying off to someplace more glamorous. A petite woman, vodka lover with sleepy cat’s eyes and hip-switching walk, poured into high leather boots, forever waving goodbye over her shoulder.
Sarah Flick is retired from the US Forest Service and lives in Colorado. She has published in 101 Words, Flash Fiction Weekly, and a Modern Love column in the New York Times.