Most weekends, the dog followed the sun. From the backyard in the morning, circling to the front by late afternoon, stopping to nap on the couch around midday.
“Hard life,” Pete said, turning away from the cartoons on the TV, moving the slice of microwaved pizza to his other hand, and scratching the dog’s neck.
The phone rang three times.
It wasn’t spring just yet, even though it felt like it, and everyone knew there’d be another storm before April. Still, outside, you could see people shovelling, digging at the snow, trying to make the seasons change a little quicker.