Fiction | September 01, 1997

This story is not currently available online.

The dog was a mixture of god-knows-how-many breeds, but the vet had told them he had at least some rottweiler blood.  You could see it in his shoulders, and you could hear it when he barked,, which he was doing that night when they pulled up beside the gate and Chuckie cut the engine.

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.