Come see the moon, she says. So I go. The backyard is quiet and dark, thick
with shadows, the grass clipped, the roses overgrown. The dog nudges me 
with her nose. You're drinking too much, she says, her eyes locked on mine, 
her long tail wagging. It's getting sloppy, she adds. She’s a purebred. She was 
expensive, but I wanted children and I wanted dogs and one was allergic to 
the other. Wants can be managed, though. My dog says, You need to cut 
down. Get yourself back to normal. I shrug. I look up and realize I don't 
actually see the moon.