Michel drops the cloth into a pan of ice water next to his chair.

A small fishing boat chugs north through the happy choppy sea. Michel can just make it out on the horizon, a tiny speck. He reaches for the bandanna and gently wrings the cloth.
“Here you go, Blue,” he says. The dog rolls onto his back under the man’s posterior. Blue’s nose and mouth are buried in the chair cloth and he knows suffocation for the first time. Michel leans to one side and then the other, fishing for the dog. Blue is struck with terror; his lunch is coming up to drown him.
“Shtph!” and again, “Shtph!” the dog blows out the sides of his mouth.
“There you are,” says Michel. He rolls off the lounge chair onto his knees and pats the dog. “Here, let me put this back on.”
He ties the bandanna around the dog’s neck.
“All set now.”
He pats the smiling dog’s head.

Harry gets Faith high on weekends.
He fires up his waterpipe and blows into her mouth.
One time, Harry gave her an elephant hit that nearly gagged her.

They go for long walks after.  

Harry follows Faith and watches the people and streetscenes she finds interesting. Years ago, he gave up trying to show her around. Faith was so much more adventurous.
Harry likes that in a woman.

Faith sees bonny black French poodles in the asphalt patches in the sidewalk, and sheds a tear on the most endearing vertical surfaces along the Avenue.
They cut off into the woods and approach the little park with the large bald heads sunk in the sand.
Peekaboo Park, they call it.

Faith strains at the leash, urging Harry to the swings.
“Alright, alright,” he laughs, now hopping over a pile of leaves. He drops the leash and the Afghan streaks across the park to the tall gray swingset. Faith sits under the third swing, panting; her long, pink tongue stroking the air.

Riding shotgun in Harry’s Mercedes convertible through the Northwoods of Wisconsin, Faith had learned about the air and the wind. Sucking up gallons of air. Pretending the Starchasers were attacking. Biting clumps of wind, her teeth clamping shut with a sharp crack!
They drove fast over that first low rise. Harry cried out “Whee!” And Faith fell back into her seat, overcome by the hot wombworms.

Now Harry addresses the swing and eases himself into the seat. Faith barks twice and Harry claps his hands and slaps his thighs.
“Come on, girl,” he says. The dog jumps into Harry’s lap.
“Whoa!” says Harry, anchoring his feet in the dirt and embracing Faith’s blond girth. “We’re both getting too old for this, Faithee.”
The dog barks in Harry’s ear and licks his nose.
“Alright, here we go!” Harry digs the balls of his feet into the dust and thrusts back with his legs. He pumps the swingchains with his arms, and shifts his body mass in and out of the ups and downs of the swing.

Harry crosses his legs and Faith buries herself in his lap.
Her tail nubs his crotch. She festoons Harry’s face with sloppy licky kisses.
Each sweep of the arc, they’re getting higher.
Faith points her snout up at the heavens at the curve of the arc and her nostrils flare in the rushing wind.
Harry grunts and exhales, his eyes are closed. He pumps on every other downswing.
Tan Green Blue Green Tan Green Blue.
Faith’s head is rigid. Her eyes stare into space.

Now the peripheries.
Now! Oh my God! All her vision is swirling, molten aquamarine. And dead at the center, the first skyblue caterpillar matures and takes flight into Faith’s belly.
The rest come quickly now.
Flocks of blue butterflies flitting off.
Darkness. Faith’s mind is free.
She plummets in a vacuum.
The butterflies’ wings tickle.
An ocean and sun move through her, sending currents of warmth down her spine, into her tail.

On the walk home, Harry takes off his sweater and ties it around his waist. Faith weaves along the Avenue, sniffing the sidewalk and cozying up to a USA Today box.

Harry’s note to the cleaner the next day reads:
“Yuan, about the pants: Tell your wife it’s butter sauce. Again. Thanks. Harry.”