On the motorcycle my thoughts come in shapes that don't fit together. I see Lily in the woods as dark as the pooled shadows hiding from sunlight. Her ears form two points that give her away.

I remember my puppy dream of warm, slick life pressed between my hands, the newborn bodies struggling for air.

Work drifts through as more of a mood. I glimpse the quiet desk where I duck away from noise and conversation and a stitch of calm threads itself.

A stranger opening my front door and staring at the snorting huffing sounds of dogs crowding behind the basement door. Their claws and feet shuffling and scraping; tails thumping against wooden stairs and dingy sheetrock.

What would the dogs do if they slipped through the door in their order -- Ozzie Hershey Lily Bandit -- and the stranger looked wrong smelled wrong and behaved wrong? They would first shuffle around to be first in line for attention, and from there the rivalry and growling would start.

Tonight Jerry said, we can't ask someone to go babysit.

Nope.

He said, we can't leave them alone for over a day and just ask someone to feed them.

Nope.

What would we do, I wondered.

Lily is spoiled and runs when I run. The hiking team dashes around in the forest once or twice a day. Good.

From the motorcycle I watch the silhouetted tree tops race across the stars. The moon skips like a stone from one clear pocket of sky to the next.