Karla Huston

The cruelest thing I did to my dog wasn’t to ignore his barking for water when his tongue hung like a deflated balloon or to disregard his chronic need for a belly rub but to teach him to shake hands, a trick that took weeks of treats, his dark eyes like Greek olives, moist with desire. I made him sit, another injustice, and allowed him to want the nuggets enough to please me.Shake, I said.Shake? touching the back of his right leg until he lifted it, his saliva trickling from soft jowls, my hand wet with his hunger. Mistress of the biscuit, I ruffled his ears and said good dog until he got it. Before long, he raised his paw, shook me until he got the treat, the rub, the water in a chilled silver bowl, the wilderness in him gone, his eyes still lit with longing.