Fiction | September 01, 1981

This story is not currently available online.

The first dead dog of the day was a shepherd that had been given a nosebleed by the car that knocked it into the weeds. The breed of the next one, thirty miles or so further on, was impossible to determine; it had been run over so often that it was flat and dry as a pelt.

If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.

SEE THE ISSUE

SUGGESTED CONTENT