Dad was cooking meat over the fire. Mom piled salad in a bowl, and Jessica toddled the patio handing out plates—paper plates adorned with spiders and grit where she’d dropped them and picked them up again. Nobody minded.
Timmy the long-haired neighbor dog was everywhere at once. His nose poked legs relentlessly. His hot breath poured its doggy scents with puffs like a train going by. And his stomach distended.
“Dad, what have you fed that dog?”
“Nothing,” said Dad. “Not yet.”
Distended stomach distended more. Then Timmy birthed her babes on the patio floor and changed her name.