There’s this dog.

There’s this dog named Dexter. He’s my boy. I just never thought the meaning of the contraction would change so soon.

Dexter’s My Boy

There’s this dog.

One day about 10 years ago my wife, Cassi, called from work to say there was an ad on the internal classified board. A woman was giving away a dog, still a puppy, really, not quite a year old. She contacted the owner to learn more. He was a good boy, the woman said, but her husband didn’t like him. The husband had not been kind.

The dog was in his kennel all day long while she was at work, got out for about an hour in the evening but never much more because of the husband. He was spending more than 22 hours a day in that kennel.

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Sacred Things

She died on Palm Sunday. I think that would have made her happy, as she drew her last breaths, knowing that she was going to die on a significant day on the church calendar. I held her hand all that morning. Now I hold the bean stone.

I’ve been carrying a rock around in my pocket for a couple of months.

The smooth, bean-shaped stone is about an inch and a half long, half an inch wide and five sixteenths of an inch thick. It’s smooth, like a worry stone. Not perfectly smooth, like the kind you’d find in a gift shop. But smooth in a natural way, with some imperfections and slight ridges that make you know it’s real.

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