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Fences

Len Kuntz

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Stevie Nicks must be barking just to hear herself because there’s no one there, and then before leaving the house I am suddenly nine years old again and our own dog, Pepper, wants to bark but Mother has had its voice box taken out, she’s had her step-children beaten by her husband, my step-dad, she’s had me watch the repeated bludgeonings so that I learn what happens when you’re young and live like pigs, and now the therapist is scratching a notepad, asking how that made me feel, is that why the eating disorder, is that why the tremors, while I’ve got an imaginary potato peeler in my hand, slicing off cards and skeins of skin, jokers and aces and hearts, all of it brilliant crimson, and when at last I pull in the drive, Stevie is still barking next door, so instead of greeting my wife, I kneel down on the ice-encrusted grass between our fences where I wait for hours days years decades until Stevie knows it’s okay, that she’s safe, that I only want to reach out and pet her, tell her, “Good dog. Good dog. Good.”

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Dedication

Lucy Anne Kuntz, best dog ever. 

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Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State and the author of five books, in addition to the upcoming story collection, Things I Can’t Even Tell Myself, out from Ravenna Press. You can find more of his writing on his website.

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