Gray Dogs by Chauna Craig art by Justin Chen Another dating attempt, city park, where a goose—years ago—chased her toddler son, both of them waddling furiously as she laughed. She waits on a swing, carefully, since she's prone to motion sickness. She has to pee. But not badly. His station wagon pulls into the gravel lot, this psychology professor she met at a bar. Crunch of rock and tire. She stands to wave and a child darts for her swing. "Hello there," he calls, shutting the driver's door then opening the back. She imagines a tartan blanket, a plastic sack full of ripe apples, a well-chilled bottle of wine to celebrate the turning leaves. Instead, he gently brings forward into the afternoon sun a stiff, wire leash attached to nothing. An empty collar. "It's okay, girl," he says in a tender, bedroom voice. "It's just a park. You be a good girl for daddy." He flicks his wrist, and the leash bobbles and surges towards her as if a lively puppy danced there. "She likes you," he says. "She's usually quite shy. Meet my Trixie Jean." She remembers how he snapped the peanuts in the bar and dug out the meat without taking his eyes from hers, how he flicked the shells to the floor so purposefully. How she'd liked that. She looks down, through the empty collar, at the taupe dirt where a beetle pauses. "Hi Trixie Jean." The beetle scrambles under a stick, and the collar—baby blue, studded with rhinestones that spray rainbows at her feet—seems to wink at her. He waits, as if she's supposed to reach down and scratch behind the ears, pat the invisible rump, gurgle whatagoodgirl-yes-whatagoodgirl. She says, "Should we all take a walk on the river trail?" She keeps her eyes on him, the smile she'd found so instantly attractive; she watches the tiny gap between his bottom teeth expand when he says yes. On the trail, they barely speak. The wind weaves the sun through the trees, and it's as if a thousand black and gold butterflies rise and land in the leaves every second. She wants to tell him this, but he is watching the dog collar wiggle through a hole in a tree. Chuckling. "What made you decide to get a dog?" she asks. Trying. "The same reasons anyone gets a dog." "Which are?" His wrist falls slack, the collar dips to earth. He says, briskly, "I like the companionship." A chipmunk springs past them, but the collar shows no interest. "Why Trixie Jean?" She persists, waiting for revelation. He shrugs. "I almost called her Shadow. She follows me everywhere, and her coat's a lovely, deep gray. Don't you think?" He holds the leash out so it trembles. The collar keeps winking: play along, play along, this is only a game. "When I was depressed once," she says, "I mean real depression, I called it the black dog. I didn't invent it, someone famous did. But my son drowned in a boating accident, and that was how I felt—like a big, black dog was watching me. Like it would never stop stalking and never attack." She takes a slow breath, and the collar suddenly jumps and strays over to a bush. He says, "The right drugs can make all the difference." Then, "Bad girl!" For a moment it seems he means her, but he is speaking to the collar as it strains to follow something into the undergrowth. How, she wonders, is he sure the dog hasn't already slipped away? The cords of his wrist flex and twist. The wire leash is so stiff that he could never hold his invisible dog in his arms, not with the collar on, never close the way you must hold what you love. "It was a long time ago," she says. "I really have to pee now." She hopes they will head back, but he hands her a crumpled tissue from his pocket. "We won't watch." The professor and his collar wander toward the river. She wants to cry, "Watch! You must always watch," but they've vanished. She squats in the dirt alone, and relieves the pressure. She remembers how in third grade they'd traced and cut out life-size human bodies, how she'd been teased for pinning the paper bladder between the lungs. But it makes sense to her now. The fill and leak. Fill and leak. The wind kicks up, and as she buttons her pants, she stares up where the sky plays hide-n-seek between leaves, where the sun butterflies dance in the treetops until the wind collapses. Somewhere by the river a child shouts. Read the interview. Fiction writer Chauna Craig is professor of creative writing at Indiana University of Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in Ascent, Fourth Genre, Quarterly West, Passages North, Connecticut Review, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere. Her fiction has been awarded an Honorable Mention in the Pushcart Prize anthology, and her nonfiction was a Notable Essay in Best American Essays 2005. She has received scholarships and fellowships to the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, Vermont Studio Center, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. Justin Chen started drawing when he was a little boy. His first piece of work was a red car in crayon, now he draws much more than that. After completed a degree in architecture, he is rediscovering his passion for illustration and graphic design. You can view his works at flickr.com/photos/jkhc. All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2012 by its authors. Issue Thirty-Four (December 19, 2011): Batman #12 by Barr Bielinski «» The Normal Thing by Mickey Laurence Cohen «» Gray Dogs by Chauna Craig «» Xenoliths by Joseph Gross «» The Fifth Way of Wearing Vermillion by Kathleen Hellen «» Out of Many by Anne Hensley «» Bus Driver by Alex Higley «» Zong by Emily-Jo Hopson «» The Worst Shark Attack Ever by Trevor Houser «» A Disagreement between Gentleman Hunters by Geoff Kronik «» Squall by Susan Rukeyser «» Master of the Art of Longrange Tenpins by Fortunato Salazar «» One Truth by Curtis Smith «» Running by R.S. Thomas «» The Freeze by Virgie Townsend «» Broken Bow by Lex Williford «» Interviews: Barr Bielinski «» Mickey Laurence Cohen «» Chauna Craig «» Joseph Gross «» Kathleen Hellen «» Anne Hensley «» Alex Higley «» Emily-Jo Hopson «» Trevor Houser «» Geoff Kronik «» Susan Rukeyser «» Curtis Smith «» R.S. Thomas «» Virgie Townsend «» Lex Williford «» Cover Art "Warhol's Appropriated Soup" by Marty Ison «» Letter From the Editor Interested in subscribing to SmokeLong's weekly newsletter? Click here. An email should be created. Send it as is, and you'll be subscribed. If the link does not work for you, send an email to imailsrv@smokelong.com with Subscribe slq-info in the body of the email (no subject is necessary). You'll receive updates detailing the release of new issues, new reading periods, contests, etc. We do not make our mail list available to anyone else.