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A Boy and His Dog
Cortney Bledsoe
I don’t remember why I looked outside,
but there he was, beaten-down, once-black
Ford pulled over in the tall grass, up the road
toward the top of the hill. I went to meet him,
thinking anything would be better than
the boredom inside. When I was closer, I could see
he had his snake rifle aimed at a dog running
across the far side of the valley. I knew
what he was thinking: the dog had been spooking
the cows, might incite them to hurt
themselves or at least raise worry
in them. So he was taking the practical
solution. A rise blocked him from seeing
the boy running up the other side of the ridge, up
from Aunt Mary Bob’s trailer, chasing
his dog that’d gotten out. And I ran
trying to beat that crack of thunder that
travelled miles faster than I ever could.
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