His black button eyes stare up into the falling rain. Days full of downpours have flattened his fur into clumpy, brown tatters. But his stuffing is still intact, so he still looks like what he was: someone’s teddy bear. A dead someone’s teddy bear, the centerpiece of a roadside shrine.
Why are there small dogs? I mean really small dogs. Smaller-than-cats small dogs. The kind of creatures women with bleached blond hair and fake tans carry in tote bags. They always seem so upset and nervous... the dogs, not the blonds. As if they know they should not be traveling in a tote bag. Their weepy little eyes beg to put them out of their tote bag misery. Perhaps they know life as an accessory is no life at all.