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I hate whoever my dog hates, not just the mailman, though he’s a fine example. And not by arrangement. We naturally agree on who’s despicable. Who we love is a different story. I’ve watched Baxter gaze at other men we meet, men who don’t resemble me, as if he were thinking: If I had to be human, I’d be a standup guy, a good earner, and a generous lover, like you. For all their supposed loyalty, my dogs have always hedged their bets. Baxter loves my ex-wife, perhaps for the same reasons I do, but he also flirts with her new boyfriend, the lawyer in our endless divorce case. That’s them pulling into the driveway now. Baxter bounds to the door, knocks over the umbrella stand, whimpers, squeals. He wants them both, in his house, for a threeway. Umbrellas be damned. It’s my fault. I’ve been avoiding the mail, again, so the statute of limitations on their willingness to unmolest me has expired, again. They’ve come for signatures. Ink must be spilled, clauses initialed. We’re sitting without refreshment at a shaky card table on shakier chairs. My formerly betrothed signs papers her boyfriend wrote that codify terms he negotiated to unrelate and nullify us to her benefit. With her other hand, her fingers are making promises to Baxter’s favorite scratchy spots. How well I know those spots, fingers, promises! The boyfriend witnesses everything and embosses the stack of lies with his notary seal, press, thing. Is there nothing the law prohibits him from being? She’s gazing at him like Baxter does. I bare my fangs each time his little seal squeaks. And though he knows better than to speak now, he speaks. And when he says the words “sole custody of the pet,” I lunge, they’ll say without warning.
Original Copyright © January 19, 2007
Revised Copyright © January 25, 2026
My stupid sister says she wants to be a Sudanese baby in Darfur so Daddy will love her. Now she’s gone AWOL. Mommy says when we find her this time, she’ll wish she was a motherless orphan. It’s just emotion talking; we’re famously emotional. Daddy’s famous for loving children in Darfur. The kids who disappear. He gets their pictures into the paper. He gets their names “out there.” He leaves the door to his office open, even on sick days, but we know not to disturb him when he’s working, which is always. Even with the interviewer, he was eating just enough to take his pills and with his other hand he was sending emails about missing children. He took over my room for his sick bed and most of my sister’s room for his files and folders. Do you see why I feel like a refugee? she said, last time she left. Daddy gets up early when he goes to bed at all. He says, Evil doesn’t sleep and neither can the truth, and someone who could leak the truth is always at a desk in another time zone. But he should sleep. He’s not getting better, even with our marrow. Me, I’d like a regular birthday with candles and presents. I want to change the world, too, but closer to home. I told the interviewer: Everyone can do something. If teaching Shakespeare is helpful, I’ll do that. See what he has to say about politics. What I should have said: If strongly-worded emails could stop kidnappings, I’d drop out of the eighth grade and save whole villages before lunch. Maybe my stupid sister’s gone to Africa this time. Daddy can get her picture in the paper. Mommy’s crying and I have to wonder why wouldn’t she be.
Original Copyright © January 15, 2007 as Daddy Loves Darfur
Revised Copyright © January 22, 2026 as Daddy Loves Sudanese Babies
Very Short Novels 