The Suicide Dog

“Sit,” Master had said as he climbed over the balcony railing. “Stay.”

He was going somewhere. He’d put on his shoes and jacket and tied a tie. Then Master leaned out, both hands gripping the balcony behind him, and rocked back and forth like he sometimes did at the bus stop. Impatient, maybe. He had no tail to wag.

Master turned his head but didn’t exactly look back when he said, “Good dog.” Then Master left. A car alarm went off.

The police pounded at the door, but Buster was a good boy. Kept quiet. They came inside, but Buster did as he was told. Didn’t move. Just looked back over his shoulder, sort of upside-down, at the policemen as they came in. Watched them touch all Master’s things.

Release, Buster thought. Say “Release.”

“Okay,” one of them finally said. “Come on, boy.”

Buster looked him in the eye. Release. Say it. Come on, sir.

“Hey, Harry!” the policeman said. “He won’t move.”

The two cops stared at Buster. He looked back and forth between them.

Say it. Buster stared. Say. It.

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