Reaching up I place my palms against the sky expecting its bubbles of light to press like tapioca against my fingers. Darker smudges from the trees' canopy protect my eyes and make shapes like bows or trailing ribbons.

In the woods with the dogs I look for Lily's peaked ears.

At home last night Jerry looked at the couch and said, sometimes I am just sick of all these animals.

Above him is a cat on the windowsill. Another cat's tail twitches as it stalks a critter cornered in the kitchen and hiding. The Have a Heart trap sits ready to go as soon as I drag myself up from the couch, which might be like separating myself from Velcro. I just want to stay here and have nothing left to worry about. Dogs are sprawled on the floor everywhere as if they saw the sign outside: free room and board and two meals a day served by the biggest sucker on Earth.

Upstairs I hear Jerry watching a TV show about people who hoard animals. I am NOT an animal hoarder. I just help what I can reach.

I could use a glass of wine tonight...

At home Jerry has the wheels off his new pickup. He is adjusting the brakes.

I tell him, I don't feel like running with the dogs tonight.

Don't, he says.

But the guilt. You know, how would you feel if you skipped working on the truck?

He says, sometimes it's worth it. You don't have to be such a martyr.

Yeah, but the guilt is worse, I tell him.

He is half laughing at me because we have this conversation together at least once a week. I have this conversation with myself everyday.

Getting changed for bed tonight Jerry stops and stares at the corner.

What, I ask.

Look at this house, I wish we had a nice clean house. All the hard work and floors I put in and windows I want to replace and look. He jabs at the cascade of cobwebs clumped in the bedroom. More stingy webs gather dust along a ceiling beam.

Well, what can we do, I ask.

Have you seen the spot where Bandit lays on the bed, he asks.

The corner of our cream colored quilt takes on the pallor of undiluted grime after about a week.

We can put a blanket down, I tell him.

Yeah but then we have a stinky dirty blanket on our bed, Jerry said. It's like the couch cover. It's a stinky furry dirt covered shit sponge, he said.

Yup.