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by Emily Weber

Please rescue Lady. I know your lease does not allow dogs, but if millions vanish, maybe your landlady will understand. I’ll miss her, I’m sure, from the seat of eternal glory. But I trust you; you’ve cared for dogs in the past. A black lab and a pit bull, you said. Who loved belly rubs and tug-of-war and walks along the canal, except in March when the geese start to hiss. And you read all seven Left Behind books as a teenager, you said. When Israel and Palestine seemed no more real than Narnia. You’ll know where I’ve gone; you can explain it to Lady, although she won’t understand. Please take her for walks and feed her your scraps and smooth down her ears during thunderstorms. Don’t fret when she roots through your trash. Forgive her: she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Forgive her: she’s innocent and so easily frightened.


Emily Weber’s work can be found in The Cincinnati Review, Barren Magazine, Gordon Square Review, Passages North, and elsewhere. She works in communications and lives near Philadelphia. Find her on Twitter @emilyweberwood.