More on: dogs

To be a priest
is to widen your arms
to hold the great sorrow

Midnight, mid-May. The earth supple with three weeks of rain, Queen Anne lacing the clover, dandelions racing the slope of hill behind our house. Water pooled in every nick and hollow bared to sky, moss slick and greening inside the curbs. Our dog noses through yards, puddle-pawed, until suddenly he is gone—bent to the wild…

Breaking Glass NOT THINKING, I MENTION the Year of Breaking Glass in front of Ben. His face tightens, but he doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, or doesn’t hear the faint yearning in my voice. The year was more like two years, on and off. Glass exploded and covered my couch or kitchen…

Our spring 2008 issue includes a new story by the weird and wonderful Pinckney Benedict. This month we virtually sat down with Pinckney to ask him about where he gets his ideas, how he manages them, and what his dog means to him.   Image: You have a novel titled Dogs of God, and in…