I don’t want to eat, even bacon.
”You’re so sad, Moe,” she says. “Me too.”
I don’t want to sniff around. His scent’s never new anymore.
Humans don’t sniff much. But she holds his shirt and sniffs. Her eyes drip water. She lies down and whimpers.
I jump on the bed. She doesn’t tell me “Get down, Moe.”
Maybe sad means sniff his shirt and whimper. So I do.
He put stuff in my brain with needles so I can think in words. They come out in his light box. She doesn’t know that yet.
I’m trying the word sad.