LAX by Michael Czyzniejewski art by Nancy Wartman Iflew back to Dallas when the dog died, a premature passing by plastic surgery. Tucking Boxer's jowls was my ex's brilliance, giving him a permanent grin, when I thought Boxer was happy all along. Veronica, seven procedures rich, claimed Boxer felt more dated than venerable, declared that he, too, deserved eternal youth. Boxer bit through his neck the morning after, the meds goofing his depth perception, those stitches itching like shit. I wanted to say, "At least he died with a smile on his face, " but saved it. Boxer was my boy. I reserved the quips for my ex. I knew I wasn't immortal when I starting pissing after showers. I'd been trained to go before—Veronica almost killed me when she caught me pissing down the drain--but one day I stepped from the stall and had to piss again. This preceded the nose hairs, ear hairs, the paunch, even the gray. I went to Veronica to tell her—we used to share everything—but at that moment, she dropped her bomb, said she was leaving me for the young fella who taught her tennis. The next morning, I pissed twice, once in the shower, again in Veronica's gym bag. At Boxer's vigil, the plastic surgeon appeared baffled by Boxer's demise, the physics of it, biting one's own neck. "Maybe it wasn't Boxer who bit Boxer," I said, so many other dogs in the neighborhood, maybe a fox or opossum smelling the salt in the sutures. The vet took it as a jab. "Veronica's a saint," he said. "She's lucky she's moved on." During the eulogy, my daughter held a candle, looked broken, while my son whispered it was good I came, that Boxer loved me best. I'd said this during the divorce, wanting Boxer when Veronica'd gotten the kids. "Who steals a dog from his children?" she said. I wanted to reply, "Who takes kids from their father?" but instead asked, "How's that backhand?" She said I could've stopped it, that I'd wanted it to happen, that I was lucky to get the California house, her childhood home. "It still smells like your mom," I answered, but couldn't tell if she heard, if her face allowed for such things. On the plane back, I met a man who'd just tried to buy the Dallas Cowboys, steal them to LA. He said his price was fair, but Jerry wasn't budging. "Stubborn bastard," he said. I wondered why he had that kind of scratch but flew commercial, first class, coach, or the fucking cockpit. I told the man about my dog, the procedure, how Boxer was only 11 and still had good years left. "Bullshit," the man said. "There's no such thing." I wanted to get up and piss, but the seatbelt light told me no. When I couldn't take it anymore, I pulled a hanky from my pocket, tied it around my face like a bandit, tapped the billionaire on the shoulder. I proclaimed, "If you think you're leaving this plane with that billion dollars, you got another think coming," pointing my fingers at him like six-shooters. The man raised his hands in surrender and I picked up the briefcase at his feet. It'd be a tough getaway, but I could start anew, once made it across the border. Under my mask, I'd smile the entire way. All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2012 by its authors. Michael Czyzniejewski is the author of the story collection Elephants in Our Bedroom, released by Dzanc Books in 2009. He teaches at Bowling Green State University, where he serves as Editor-in-Chief of Mid-American Review, and spends summers in his native Chicago, selling beer at Wrigley Field during Cub games. He is also a 2010 NEA Fellow in Fiction. Read the interview. Nancy Wartman is a freelance illustrator who has studied art at Northern Illinois University. She presently is an art teacher at an elementary school. Her specialty is watercolor but recently enjoys working with oil pastels. Issue Twenty-Nine (September 29, 2010): Bearded by Patrick Allen Carberry «» Hip by Kim Chinquee «» Our Littlest Brother by Dan Crawley «» LAX by Michael Czyzniejewski «» Bathroom Jesus by Kelli Ford «» Boy With Cherries by Adam Golaski «» Dancer by Peter Grandbois «» Aeroplane by Alex Haber «» Feral by Joe Kapitan «» Gorillas by Ben Loory «» Model #3 by Annam Manthiram «» Working Halloween for Christmas Money by John Minichillo «» Claire by Nick Ripatrazone «» Guard by James Robison «» Sixteen by Laura Tanenbaum «» These Three Things That Noah Doesn't by J.A. Tyler «» Snake Walk by Ajay Vishwanathan «» Dive by Dawn West «» Bedtime in Thorpe Village, Leicestershire, England by Sue Williams «» Thank You, I'm Sorry by Caroline Zilk «» Interviews: Patrick Allen Carberry «» Kim Chinquee «» Dan Crawley «» Michael Czyzniejewski «» Kelli Ford «» Adam Golaski «» Peter Grandbois «» Alex Haber «» Joe Kapitan «» Ben Loory «» Annam Manthiram «» John Minichillo «» Nick Ripatrazone «» James Robison «» Laura Tanenbaum «» J.A. Tyler «» Ajay Vishwanathan «» Dawn West «» Sue Williams «» Caroline Zilk «» Cover Art "Sara Serengeti" by Marty D. 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.