I worry Larry might explode, the way he’s holding back.
Don’t overreact, says the vet, but I sense a sadness in Larry’s eyes.
To show him how easy shitting is, I sit Larry by the telly and click through the political bluster. Larry scratches his ear and buries his bone in his bed. Buries his nose in the newspaper and whines.
Larry, I say, I know.
Out in the garden, I crack a cold one and toast the last sunset over a unified Europe.
Larry, saving it for tomorrow, howls and digs another hole.
Sara Hills is a writer based in Warwickshire, UK. Her short fiction has been nominated for various anthologies and shortlisted for both the Bath Flash Fiction Award and the Bridport Prize. Her stories have appeared in Barren Magazine, Retreat West, Flash Flood Journal and others. When she’s not chasing her giant dog down country lanes, she tweets from @sarahillswrites
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