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Pigeons are born knowing where they belong, with whom they belong.

I yell at the boys: “What are you doing! Are you out of your minds?”

Now he’s grazing my books. The Bible is his favorite so far. He is a goat.

He got his wife off a German farmer, for whom he went to work one day.

Our dog had held down what we had by pressing his belly to the floors.

It’s been months since the cat died and still we find her hair.

She pointed to the end of the driveway. “Is he yours?”

What we know of love between species we learn from the bones.

I pictured myself as a chart inside her head. Two sides: good and bad.

I know about sex. It’s not a cardinal flying into the wrong window.

We serve them far more than they serve us. Service animals, we all are.

We roasted mastodons. Designed skewers, ovens, steampits.

Imagine the world you want to live in; make the world in this image.

A plus B; a child in peril, plus love, dissolution of, equals a story.

Michael McGriff

Tobias Wolff reading two stories aloud: "Say Yes" and "Her Dog."

My days pass through me as music through a thin, stretched wire.

Her anger was white and cold. It sent seams of ice through my heart.

Oh, won’t you lie here darling whistlepigs, here, curled at my side?

When nobody knows where you are, you get to talk however you want.

You are the only one who knows not to pour water on the flame.