He watched the dog try to jump the dry gulch, knowing that it was too far and the grey dog would not make it. The dog had came from nowhere, running out of the trees, tongue out,moving fast and low to the ground and he stood, hands in pocket, watching.  The dog curved toward him, not at him but in an arc that moved with the land, rushing up to the sudden dip of earth, moving through the leaves like he was jet powered.

He couldn’t tell what kind of dog it was, just that it was medium sized and grey, a Chester, he thought, or Roger. He watched the dog leap into the air, watched the dog as its muscles moved and flexed, stretched his legs out reaching for that other side, reaching for the other edge that was four inches, six, who could tell, away from him. The dog fell from sight and he heard the thud, crack, whimper. Walking through the leaves to the dog created a crunching sound, softer and less sharp than the dog had made. The dog was trying to sit.

He could tell it was broken but loved the dog for trying to walk. He stood, placed down, tenderly, that front right paw, collapsed again. The dog remained that way. He watched it, looking for a collar, looking for anything. A mutt, it looked like, matted fur, paws bigger than he should have. The man could have left the dog there; the nearest vet was miles away and money he didn’t have. He stepped down the bank and the dog sat, one leg raised, looking at him. He growled. The man knew he didn’t mean it. The man felt sorry for him. Maybe a Charles. Or an Edward.

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