You fall in love. You get older. You fall out of love. You forget what it was like to fall in love. Your dog dies. You get a new dog. You consider philandering but are too tired. Your wife, out of work, brings the new dog everywhere. She says it's her favorite dog ever. She takes it to the mall and leaves it in the car for hours at a time. Your new dog dies of heat exhaustion in the car. Later that night, while she is cradling the dead dog in her arms, you admit to having fallen out of love. She says, This is not about you; this is about the dog. She tells you to stay inside and buries the dog in the garden, so, she says, he will be reborn as a vegetable. Your child, who is a peripheral figure in your marriage, asks if this happens to every dog. You get a new dog. The new dog digs up the old dog. You get another new dog. Your peripheral child asks what happened to the other dogs. You remind him that he knows; he helped the last dog dig up the old dog. He asks if dogs go to heaven. You tell him no, dogs would find heaven and the concept of God terrifying. He says he doesn't want the new dog. You tell him he must, and he must continue to believe in dogs. You say, There is nothing more important than dogs in the entire world. You tell him it will be his job to name the new dog.

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