From Hoosier Writers 2012 by Ryan P Norris
I have a little dog, about the size of a bluegill. Her tail end swings back and forth when she walks. Late in the darkness of sleepy time in my living room she trolls the floor, sniffing, the way I imagine a small fish sniffs for drifting morsels in a cold lake after midnight, after the retirees climb ashore and their aluminum boats rock against moldy docks.
She circles my legs and I snatch her up in the net of my hands and she squirms on my lap. Snow packs the windows and a flame ignites in the tin box called furnace. A long blue flame stretching along the furnace grate. She wiggles, wanting free, black marbles in her eye sockets shining. I lift her barrel chest on my palm and lower her into the dense darkness. She shoots away, her tail end back and forth, into the emptiness, towards the deep heat.