Makeda was a good dog. She looked like a baby fox, and loved me more than anyone else. Every morning before school I walked her down the street toward the park. The houses getting more and more decrepit as we walked. We’d walk along side the park, avoiding the various wrappers and throw away items….
Watching her from a far doing the things that made her happiest – reading, writing, driving around, taking hikes through the local mountain ranges, going out with her friends, drinking at bars, dancing with strange men, men who were her friends, all men who were older than she was. All those things and more gave him a sense of unrest, a sense of weary, a sense that she was putting herself out there too much, giving the world too much of herself, and certainly – he assumed – giving too much of herself away to the men around her.