Dog Days
She sits outside, waiting for me to comb her out. I keep a lighter ready. Whenever a flea is caught in the comb, I quickly light the small bit of undercoat caught in the teeth and the flea stops moving. All you really have to do is burn their legs off and seal their mouth. Some days it seems as if they know what I’m doing. They feel better after I comb them. I wish I could just put a spot on them but it no longer works. Evolution. The day is hot, and long — and lonely. I struggle to deal with how it started — how my wife refused again to go to dialysis. The screaming that woke up my son. The memory of her locking me out of the house last night as I, covered in gas, hiked my way home from a car that had cut its fuel line, and she, blaming me for being late and refusing to let me inside. I remember how tired I was walking around through the gate in the stone wall to the workshop in the back, filling up a backpack with tools and walking back to the car, fixing it with a piece of old