An Aulstralian Shephard sniffed its way home over a winter and spring from Colorado to Oklahoma. Write it up, Ted, my producer said. My neighbor also had an Australian Shephard. He brought it over last 4th of July. I took pics at the party. I looked for the picture on my hard drive to use for the story. I saw a file I'd never looked at, pictures from the going away party for thirty-year anchor Garth Jones. There was a picture of Pam and I kissing. I've never kissed Pam. She doesn't look like that. I don't like that. She's made of wax. I'm made of Play-Doh. When I'm on camera I look like a glazed pot.
In the picture we crash into each other, hooked like Siamese. We look at the other like we both know someting no one alive on earth knows. We found the location of the ark of the convenatnt and it's our secret. So secret I don't even remember it now. It was there, right in front of us. I'm pre-mustache, post-gray, about four years ago. I don't even talk to Pam, didn't even think to invite her to my July 4th party. I shared something with her I don't even know about.
She walks past my office window. There are cracks in her makeup. Her eyes meet mine and neither of us so much as nods or opens our apertures. She's gone. I close the picture. The dog. The dog taversed mountains, survived a winter, something... I need a cup of coffee before I can finish the story.