Bella Ross

Life on Mars?

My dog stands under the awning, staring out into our backyard, sniffing the thick, soupy air. He needs to use his giant bathroom, but he needs to step onto the grass and into the storm to do so. It seems unfair and somehow unnatural that this is the only way for him: he hasn’t been a wolf for millennia. He doesn’t want to get wet, but he needs to pee—I know he does. He hasn’t gone since this morning, and the sun has long past.