A whimsical retelling of the Greek myth Daphne, set in an alternate reality Brooklyn where people (literally) idolize their dogs. 

In the beginning, there were dogs. Dogs roamed the earth when it was formless and void. They dreamed mountains and rivers into existence. The dogs needed a worthy companion, so they breathed humans into being. Over time, it delighted the dogs to teach humans to hunt. Later, they domesticated humans to build cities and parks so the dogs could experience a softer lifestyle, and more easily commune with their human acolytes. 

But after some time the dogs saw it fitting to reshape the earth again. They called on the winds and the rain, and mostly the lack of rain, to smite any region that did not honor its dogs. 

Through this the dogs eliminated the evildoers and their petty disturbances: helicopters, delivery trucks, skateboards, and fireworks. 

And it was good. 

That spring, the settlement in Brooklyn was the only remaining dog-fearing region left on the East Coast. It had a single freshwater source, the Prospect Park Lake. It had been 500 days since the last rain. 

Saturday, 7 a.m. The people are gathering on Long Meadow for the eagerly-anticipated Election Games to find out if the black Labrador, Poseidon, will lock in the mayorship for another four years. Not everyone is happy with his congenial leadership style. Even his fans admit the dry spell of his term’s tail-end is troubling. The double-coated dog sits attentively on the brown grass, leaning into an ear scratch from his person, a snub-nosed man with ruddy skin and an easy smile. 

A copper-haired woman approaches the grassy stretch from Grand Army Plaza, trailing her Pomeranian, Daphne, by the customary six feet. As they cross the sidewalk onto the lawn, Daphne dives for a bird pecking the roots of a nearby tree. 

“Daffy!” her person hisses, glancing sideways to see if anyone noticed Daphne’s reckless behavior. Spotting no one within earshot, she mutters, “Silly dog. We’ll never qualify for advanced training at this rate.” 

Daphne’s person pushes her copper bangs back into her thick bob. Earlier, the indecisive dog wagged her tail equally for all three outfits presented by the person. Shivering in her pajamas, the person resorted to a more basic form of divination: she tossed a coin, getting “heads” on the navy peacoat and black Levis. Once dressed, she rushed through the morning offering, barely crisping Daphne’s filet mignon, and for herself, scarfing down a goat’s milk yogurt. 

The brown-orange Pomeranian returns the look of disappointment to her petite person. As if to say, this woman is not amused by the pretty birds? Daphne meekly returns to her person’s side, while the copper-haired woman scans the gathering for the reason she arrived early. 

Artemis. 

Artemis and her person are legendary hunters. The elusive Shiba Inu is known to skip out on even the biggest social events, like the steepled shelter’s Blessing of the Great Dane, or the Halloween Costume Parade. But everyone comes to the Election Games. 

The person picks up Daphne to cut through the growing crowd, keeping a keen eye out for Artemis’ person, a lean-muscled woman with a strawberry blonde pixie cut and overplucked eyebrows. If she can bring Daphne close enough to sniff her idol’s butt, some of her goodness might rub off on Daphne. And, if she can associate Daphne with the legendary dog, they might actually get accepted to the advanced training program at the shelter. 

“Do you remember your daddy?” the Pomeranian person whispers to the featherweight ball of fluff held tight to her chest. “Because, I remember mine, and the last thing he told me is to find us a set of studs so he could have grandchildren.” She sighs. “It was a heart condition that took him early.”

She squeezes past two women lost in a public display of affection, their chihuahuas humping at their feet. The small dog people huddle on a slope for a better view of the Games. The bigger dogs are rough-romping on the exterior dry grass, their humans trading verbal jabs. 

Daphne licks her person’s hand. “Thank you, little Daffy,” the person says. “And if it’s okay with you, I have an idea for us … that will not involve mates or litters. But I’m going to need your help.”

Artemis won’t be romping; but she won’t be far from the action, either. Daphne’s person pushes toward the center of Long Meadow, where the competitors are lining up. A senior Great Pyrenees is set to defend his role as treasurer, seated beside his balding white-haired person. The Games are about to begin. 

Daphne wiggles in her person’s arms. She wants down. The person sighs, and weaves her way back out of the dense crowd. She plops the small dog to the earth. As she rises, she’s face-to-face with her idol. The heart-shaped face, the hard brown all-knowing eyes. The woman’s pixie cut was certainly not done with kitchen scissors, like her own copper bob. Similarly, the dog has a trim that could only be credited to one of the shelter’s grooming masters. And, what erect posture! Daphne dashes forward, right past the glowing Shiba Inu, bolting to sniff an abandoned apple core, paying no mind to Artemis as she passes. Daphne urinates on the apple core. Her person drops her head in shame. 

* * *

Back on the slope with the small dog crew, a yapping rat terrier and her shaggy-haired person are in competition for whose voice can carry further. 

“It only took 500 days without rain to destroy Los Angeles,” the blonde woman, wearing a linty tie-dyed sweatshirt, says. 

A man wearing a plaid Gap sweater to match his black dachshund's, responds. “It’s just deserted.” 

“Deserted, like turned into a desert? Or like everyone left?” 

“Both?” the dachshund’s person says.

Daphne’s person turns her head to zone out from the chatter. 

Another voice pipes in. “I heard the Alaska settlement is allowing us double the permanent transfers this year, because of our drought…”

Daphne’s person mumbles, “LA defied their dogs. That can’t happen here.” 

She lifts Daphne onto her shoulder and walks back into the crowd. Brooklyn’s entire population of dogs and humans are packed from grass to the treeline of the mile-long meadow. 

She wants a better view, and not just to see which dog-human pairs win leadership roles. The Games are also a great chance to divinate what the future may hold. The dogs, in their eternal wisdom, convey multiple messages within every tail wag or low growl, and this information is available for anyone who observes. Constellation maps and tea leaf readings pale in comparison to the accuracy of dog divination. Daphne’s person squeezes between a bulldog and a Jack Russell mix, using her small frame as an advantage to get a better view. 

The Great Pyrenees solves the food puzzle on the first try. He will serve another four years as treasurer. His white-haired person slips him a treat from a waist pouch, and the dog wags his tail. Daphne’s person watches it like a pendulum. An acceleration, followed by a graceful sway? She makes a mental note. Treasurer corresponds with the economy. Thus, a rapid economic rise in the first half of the term will be followed by a plateau. 

Next up is the behavior race, for the office of public safety. The incumbent, a white poodle, has its fur neatly trimmed in anticipation of spring, and perhaps in an attempt to look fierce, but its long face and dark brown eyes only appear delicate next to its opponent—a German shepherd. 

Daphne leans her chin on her person’s head, the copper bob and brown-orange fur blending as one.  The person’s right arm is numb from the awkward angle required to hold Daphne in place, but she’s a good dog person, so she’ll do anything to keep her dog happy.

A whistle blows. The poodle’s person calls, Sit! Passes a treat. Stay! Walks ten paces across the coned-in field. Come! The poodle earns a treat. Lay down! Roll over! Give paw! Speak! The poodle emits a half groan-yap. Dogs in the crowd echo their response in a wave of barks that rumble outward. Play dead! The dog is still. The timekeeper taps the stopwatch. 

“Forty-eight seconds,” the timekeeper announces. 

The German shepherd repeats the sequence. It’s got a bigger frame, more bulk to move around, but graceful precision. When its person commands, Speak! The dog articulates a clean, emphatic “Arff!” Dogs in the crowd cheer in response. Total time is 44 seconds. The German shepherd wins. 

In between races, Daphne’s person finally takes the stroller-backpack off her shoulders and sets Daphne inside. An Australian shepherd is pushing the crowd back to rearrange the field for the hurdles. The competition for agriculture commissioner requires dogs to be both fast and agile. Golden retrievers, ranging in shade from cream to a warm copper, take the field. 

A woman with a goldendoodle standing near Daphne’s person is already talking about the next—and final—game. The frisbee throw. To choose the mayor. 

“Look, Poseidon’s person has the rubber frisbee. He’ll be the one to throw it. Doesn’t that put his dog at an advantage?” Woman and goldendoodle wear matching silk bandanas around their necks.

A man, maybe her boyfriend, replies. “All the candidates for mayor have great sportsmanship. Look at them, lining up, organized by primary breed. A Weimaraner puppy barely old enough to compete, a couple adolescent retrievers, and even a female border collie.” 

“By definition, the Games are a divine election,” Daphne’s person says. The couple turns to her. “It’s not like we’re choosing a leader with the human bias of royal blood or popular vote. Dogs are a more evolved species. They don’t make mistakes.”

The one time Daphne pooped in the house was the person’s fault. She slept in late. She hasn’t forgotten it, and swears not to repeat the error. 

“The dogs don’t,” the goldendoodle person agrees, emphasis on dogs.

The tattooed boyfriend, a pitbull person, nods. He speaks, more softly. “Being likable alone doesn't make a dog a good leader. And remember the reversed restaurant ban? How did the mayor’s person divinate Poseidon’s will? It had to be more complex than a choice between two food bowls.” 

At the beginning of his term, the congenial black Labrador’s person announced restaurants would no longer require you to be accompanied by a dog to dine in. Daphne’s person has yet to see a dogless diner out in her own neighborhood. But who knows how many dogs have been left alone at home, to their own devices, their separation anxiety manifesting as dry skies, their howled tears stealing water from the rain? 

The tattooed man glances up at the bright blue sky. “Love your dog with all your heart, soul, and mind. It’s a simple commandment. But even in Brooklyn, not everyone honors their dogs.” 

Daphne’s person likes the couple, the pitbull and the goldendoodle, and wonders which steepled shelter they go to on Sundays. She hasn’t seen them at her Fort Greene gathering. She’s about to ask, but at the meadow’s center, the ruddy man is getting ready to throw the frisbee, and the Pomeranian person remembers Artemis. She starts backing out through the crowd, a mile long and 50 yards deep, her eyes peeled for the Artemis and the person’s strawberry blond pixie cut. 

“Woah!” Daphne’s person hears gasps all around. People push forward, squeezing her path. She sighs, drops her shoulders, and turns. 

The frisbee winner trots to her person, a tall woman with shiny black hair. The mayor-elect is the rough-coated female border collie. The long-snouted dog grips the rubber frisbee in its teeth. 

Daphne’s person's heartbeat quickens. A swift win! No dogs collided in the jump. No tug-of-war for the frisbee on the grass. The winning dog caught the frisbee, airborne, on the first try. That means an extra month of summer. A longer growing season. That’s good! But it won’t guarantee a bigger yield in agriculture, with no rain. 

“What’s the dog’s name?” Daphne’s person asks a woman she recognizes from the farmer’s market, whose greyhound won the costume contest dressed as a tarantula last Halloween.

“That’s Athena,” the woman says. “It’s Artemis’ half sister. Their breeders used the same stud, if you can believe it.” 

Daphne perks up, sniffing the air. Artemis! 

For once, dog and human are on the same page. “Let’s find her, Daffy,” the person says. She folds up the stroller and slings it over her shoulders so she can hold Daphne in front of her heart, like a compass, watching the dog’s nose turn, using it to guide her steps. No question is too big or too small for a dog. 

The person drops her chin and nudges her way forward. She’s stubborn. They have it in common. Daphne recognized it right away. That, plus their matching hair, is why Daphne chose her at the breeder’s. Daphne’s person had dreamed of adopting a shelter dog when she was a child, but the waiting list was years long, then her dad died, and she needed structure and guidance while she finished school. A puppy turned out to be the perfect antidote. 

The woman had recited the Adoption Vows to puppy Daphne: “I will love and cherish you, and exalt no other deities above you, ‘til death do us part.” She took the Pomeranian home. They bonded immediately, but when it came time to do training exercises, Daphne only wanted belly rubs.

Now an adolescent, Daphne can’t do the things other dogs do. She’ll sit for a treat, but she won’t stay. If her person is halfway across the room, she wants to be there, too. With that kind of performance, they’ll never qualify for the advanced training program. 

But Daphne’s person lets herself dream. With Artemis’ sister—well, half sister, as mayor, perhaps some of the resources currently devoted to agriculture could be shifted to small game hunting. That would mean more opportunities for small, fast dogs, like Daphne. 

The copper-haired person turns toward Grand Army Plaza on the sidewalk that circles the Long Meadow. Her Fort Greene apartment is in the same direction of where Artemis lives, in DUMBO, not too far from the bridge to Man-Cat-Tan. Ahead of her, a St. Bernard lowers to a play-bow. A long-haired chihuahua, barely the size of the St. Bernard’s face, sniffs his nose, and then the dogs circle each other, their mismatched sizes making the more intimate phase of the greeting a challenge. Daphne’s person pauses. The sidewalk backs up in both directions. The St. Bernard lowers to the ground and rolls on his side. “Aww, big baby wants belly rub!” a woman coos. 

The Pomeranian person sighs. She plops Daphne to the ground while she looks for an easier exit. 

A Siberian husky crosses the sidewalk and grabs a tree branch in his teeth. 

“Hey, that’s Cupid’s stick!” A woman with long, multicolored braids yells and points.

A tall man with a strong nose chases the dog. “That stick? It was just lying there.” His hair is platinum blond on the top, with darker roots visible on the sides. 

The woman’s voice rises in pitch. “He carried that stick to Red Hook and back. Three times already this spring.” 

The brown, black, and white Beagle next to her, in the shade of a tree with faintly sprouting green leaves, flares its big nostrils. 

“The stick was on the ground when Apollo grabbed it,” the man says in his dog’s defense. His chiseled chest is visible under his sweater. 

The Pomeranian person understands the issue. The conflict is drawing more of a crowd than the people trapped behind the St. Bernard. The blue-eyed husky shakes his coat, still gripping the stick in his teeth. To take the tree branch away from Apollo would bring anger. His wrath could cause injury on his blue-eyed person, perhaps a stress fracture in the heel. Based on his physique, he’s likely a ranch hand. He’d lose his ability to work. 

But, Cupid the Beagle has affection for the stick. To lose it would inspire grief. If not properly consoled, his person could be cursed with the loss of a friendship, lost income, or even the life of a family member. The dogs are just and fair. There are always consequences. 

A conflict like this can be resolved with a simple yes/no divination. Blink once for Cupid. Blink twice for Apollo. If only Daphne had an advanced training certificate!

The long-braided woman is in tears. “You don’t understand. He’ll be very upset.” 

Her floppy-eared dog trots a few steps toward Apollo, but the Beagle knows the sled racing-bred dog is going to be faster. 

Cupid howls. 

Birds scatter from the treetops. 

For a moment, all is still. Then, Apollo drops the stick. 

He takes off running. Straight. Toward. Daphne. 

Her person gasps. The husky chases Daphne across the sidewalk, onto the meadow, riling up more dogs in the still-dispersing crowd. They’re circling, circling. The bigger dog’s pointed nose is inches away from Daphne’s rear.

The person sees the terror on her Pomeranian’s face. “Make him stop, she doesn’t like it!” she cries. 

The tall man laughs lightly and whistles to his dog. 

Daphne’s person runs over and picks up the Pomeranian. She ditches the sidewalk completely, crossing the center of the meadow, right through the playing field, wanting to get out of the park as quickly as possible. She pushes past a man in a tattered army green coat and overhears a line of his conversation.

“But we’ve always had a Labrador for mayor. The woman doesn’t even look like her dog.”

Daphne’s person turns to the newly elected officials, circled up at the meadow’s center. It’s true. Athena has a full snout. Her person, a flat nose. Athena is black and white with a rough coat. Her person has long, sleek black hair. Athena has warm brown oval eyes. Her person’s eyes are delicate peach blossoms. 

Yes, the new mayor is a border collie, not a Labrador. But maybe that would be nice, for a change?

* * *

Four hours later, Daphne's daily grooming is complete. Her paws are waxed. Her ears are cleaned. Her cheeks are massaged. Her nails are filed. Her teeth are brushed. 

The person takes the compost to the yard and carries an armful of glass bottles to the goat dairy rack in the entryway. By the time she comes back up to her second floor entrance, the breeze has swung the door shut and Daphne is barking ferociously. If the neighbors—a chiweenie upstairs, a puggle downstairs—have heard the ruckus, at least they haven’t alerted their humans yet. The person rushes inside to console Daphne. 

She puts the dog on the red velvet armchair by the window, Daphne’s favorite afternoon perch. She kneels in front of Daphne. With her thumbs, she presses the orange fur back on Daphne’s cheeks. The dog emits a low pur. 

The person keeps her adoring gaze on Daphne’s wet nose and speaks softly.  

“Daffy baby. I apologize for offending your higher ways. I only went downstairs without you because I did not want to disturb your nap. I only wish to please you, and now I’m reminded—again—that you have a higher plan.” 

She rubs the Pomeranian’s ears. A sense of peace fills her body as her brain waves sync up with the dog. Daphne’s person shifts to telepathic communication. 

Earlier at the park, you weren't really scared of the bigger dog. You just looked scared because you thought I was scared! You are all-powerful. Everything is part of your plan. 

She kisses the dog’s paw. Daphne blinks bashfully. 

The doorbell rings.

The person's first thought is, the chiweenie upstairs has ratted out my negligence. 

But when she opens the door, she’s met with the piercing blue eyes of the athletic man from the Games. His husky sits at his heel. 

“Hey!” His face fills with a wide smile. “Ah, this is embarrassing. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” He leans his head to peer behind her. 

“N-no?” Daphne’s person says. 

“I came to apologize. Apollo was chasing your dog earlier, and, I felt bad, so…” He holds up a single sunflower.

“Ah! Daphne is allergic to pollen,” the person says. 

“It’s for you.”

“Oh.” She takes the flower. 

“Anyway, I didn’t mean to bother you—” He steps to the side, and the Pomeranian person leans her door open to set the flower on the kitchen counter. Seeing his chance, Apollo leaps through the opening and dashes past the coffee table. 

“Apollo, leave it!” Both man and dog are in the apartment. Daphne leaps from the velvet chair, and Apollo is close behind. They circle the coffee table. Again, and again, until the tall man can get a hand on his dog’s shoulder. “Buddy, let her go.” He laughs nervously. 

He’s seated on her floor rug with his dog. The woman picks up her Pomeranian.

“I admit this hasn’t been the best introduction,” the man says. “You probably think I’m a goon.” 

The woman considers nodding, but decides to cut him some slack. There’s something endearing about a stereotypically attractive man who is self-conscious. 

“I wondered.” He catches her gaze with his sky-blue eyes. “Would you like to come to dinner? Tonight?” 

“Oh!”

“My condo building has a brick oven for making goat’s cheese pizza. And, something for the dogs, of course.”

She realizes he’s inviting her to his apartment. For a first date. She tries to hide her skepticism while she considers. “Oh, where do you live?” 

“In DUMBO.” 

The long walk will require lugging Daphne’s stroller. But they might pass Artemis on her home turf. She sees Daphne and Artemis exchanging pee-mails as they sniff and tag the same street signs. Plus, it would be nice to split the duties of the evening offering with someone for a change. Daphne’s taken to barking when her person is too slow to crisp her beef. 

“Sure, that would be … nice.” 

He grins with teeth as white as his dog’s belly fur. 

* * *

Daphne’s never been in a luxury apartment, and the dog’s anxiety is palpable through the soft stool she defecates in a neatly trimmed flower bed. The person had downsized from her usual bag, and doesn’t have the wipes, scoop, and mason jar for cleaning. She’ll have to make do with the compostable baggie. 

What she did bring was a book on advanced divination. After the evening offering, she usually asks Daphne a few general questions for the day ahead, but with two dog deities, there are more complex divinations available. She hopes the husky person will have the required materials: a rubber ball, three rice sacks, and eucalyptus oil. She might have even suggested they stay up late and try to read a poop formation, a master technique, but Daphne’s current condition will not allow it. 

“Have a seat!” The blue-eyed man points to his couch. “I’ll set up the dogs in the kitchen.”

“Do you think Daphne could have her own—space?” The big-screen TV is already logged into Netflix, and in the pristine living room, there are no dog toys in sight.

“Oh, Apollo won’t bug her while he’s eating. But, if it makes you feel better, I can set him up—behind this barrier in the hall?”

“Yes, please.” 

She puts Daphne on the rug and the Pomeranian sniffs the couch legs tentatively. 

Daphne’s person pops into the kitchen. “Do you want help—” She gasps. “Is that canned beef?”

“Oh, yeah, I work at a ranch. This stuff is the best, it’s prime.”

“But—the evening offering is supposed to be fresh.”

“As opposed to the morning offering?” He smiles, amused.

“Both of them! Canned food is overheated. The meat loses texture! It stifles their spiritual connection.”

“Babe. Trust me, I hand-fed the cows this shit is made of. It’s the best.” 

Daphne’s person, dejected, returns to the couch. Her dog is smart. If Daphne turns a nose up at the canned beef, then she’ll know it’s no good. Simple as that.

“How ‘bout that new mayor?” He sets a big husky-sized bowl down in the kitchen, a dollop of ground beef in the center for the Pomeranian, not even measured. Daphne runs for it. 

“Poseidon chose the blue tennis ball to predict rain every year, and he was wrong. It’s not that much of a surprise he wasn’t re-elected.” 

She’s about to joke that, for an elected official to have logged so many inaccuracies, Poseidon must be eating canned beef. But her chest feels tight. Daphne’s halfway through the subpar meal. What if her soft stool was merely a prescient warning of what is to come?

“Brooklyn is a retriever town. We’ve had retriever mayors for as long as I can remember.” The man sits by her on the couch and hands her a plate of crispy goat cheese pizza with fresh-sliced tomatoes. “Herbs and veggies are from the community garden,” he says. 

If only he took this care with his dog’s meals. 

“You’re mad because the mayor-elect’s person doesn’t look like her dog,” she says. 

“Look, Athena's my half sister. We share blood. But we don't always get along.”

The Pomeranian person coughs on a bite of pizza. Athena … the black and white border collie. This isn’t just any luxury high-rise apartment. She’s eating dinner with the mayor-elect’s half brother!

“And, okay. If I’m being honest, yes.” He laughs. “She doesn’t look like her dog. But look at the two of you!”

The person teased her copper bob to be as fluffy as Daphne’s mane for the occasion, and she’s flattered that her efforts are being noticed. 

But before she can accept the compliment, she sees a smear of gravy on Daphne’s cheek. The small dog is already finished eating and wags her tail to be picked up. The person wipes the stray beef from Daphne’s fur and licks her finger. Sometimes her generous dog leaves a scrap of filet mignon behind so the person can enjoy a rare bite of real beef, which is not sold for human consumption. This is no different. 

“Ok, but about the offerings … how can we trust their answers, when we divinate?”

“Divinate? You want us to solve climate change with a pom and a husky? Not everyone does their offerings the same way.” He shakes his head. “I don’t need the criticism.” 

He has a dab of goat cheese stuck to his cheek, and she is tempted to wipe it clean, too, like she did for Daphne. “I’m sorry.” She sighs. “Let’s talk about something else. How is the ranch? Do you like it?”

She hugs Daphne to her belly, and tilts her head up at the husky person. He swallows a bite of pizza. His steady blue eyes put her at ease. 

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” He licks olive oil off his finger. “I’m getting relocated. To Alaska.”

“You got approved for a permanent transfer?”

“There’s more work up there. Especially for someone whose dog is made for a cold climate.” His gaze drops from her face, down, to her double-coated dog. In her lap.

“I can bring a female.”

“Oh.” 

The last thing her dad told her was to find a mate. Maybe it would be good for Daphne to be with a bigger dog. She would be protected. 

Apollo lays down in the hallway, facing them through the netted barrier. 

But Daphne’s person is unsure. Alaska is cold! She changes the subject. “So, DUMBO is a nice neighborhood. Do you know Artemis?

“My twin?” He laughs and punches her shoulder. “You’re funny. Yes, I know Artemis.”

She maps the genealogy in her head. Athena and Artemis, half sisters. Is everyone west of Flatbush related? So that’s how he’s half sister to Athena … he’s the twin of the legendary hunter, her idol, Artemis. 

This whole time she was trying to control everything. But Daphne, in her infinite wisdom, knew a better way for them to get into Artemis’ inner circle. Daphne brought them here, even facing her fears, to lure the bigger dog. For the second time that day, the Pomeranian person scolds herself for lack of faith. 

She holds her palm to Daphne’s belly to establish the telepathic connection. I trust you, baby.

The plate of pizza slides off her lap onto the couch. Apollo breaks down the barricade, diving for the pizza as Daphne yaps and leaps from her person’s lap. The dogs are off again. Circling the coffee table, spinning through the kitchen. 

“His teeth are on her rhinestone collar—”

“—they’re playing!”

Daphne’s paws flail in the air.

The woman screams.

He manages to wrap his arms around the husky again. The Pomeranian person is lost in his bewitching blue eyes, barely hearing what the man is saying.

“C’mon. Everyone loves a husky. What’s not to love? Apollo’s got admirers all down the street…”

She’s still shaking once the man has shut the barking husky into his bedroom and hands her a serving of pizza leftovers in a compostable clamshell. Daphne shivers in her person’s arms. The person realizes Daphne has been subtly guiding her decisions all along, training her to cede to Daphne’s will. If she truly trusts her dog, this is her chance to show it.

“Give me a week to decide.” 

* * *

Daphne’s person orders ceremonial chocolate from a farmer’s market upstate that doesn't check training credentials. She piles Daphne and two Nalgenes of drinking water into the stroller to meet the delivery truck on the other side of the Man-Cat-Tan Bridge. This is as far as motor-powered vehicles are allowed into dog country. 

Daphne laps water up from a collapsible bowl under a tree by the waterfront. Her person gulps down the remainder to prepare for the long walk up Flatbush to Prospect Park. 

The person puts Daphne in her stroller, the dog perched on a blanket, a small bag of dog treats, and hidden underneath, a worn-out book of poop formations. They pass a team of Portuguese water dogs leading their humans home from a shift at the Navy Yard. 

In Prospect Park, a man with an Australian Terrier strapped to his back is pushing a manual lawn mower on the Great Meadow when they pass. They walk deeper and deeper into Prospect Park, over two bridges and then off-sidewalk into the trees, far from any marked road. 

The person never wanted to settle down and have a family. She wanted to be a hunter. But the work options for Pomeranian people are limited. If Daphne can’t make it into advanced training, their best bet is to mate up with a dog that can work, like the husky. 

A mural on the side of a brick building reads, Dogs Are Love. As long as the dogs are happy, all will be well. But it isn’t. Everywhere she looks, she sees wagging tails. But no rain! 

She’s finally ready to admit it. If Daphne wants to go to Alaska with Apollo the husky, she will go. 

It’s a big decision. Too big to be answered by a simple food bowl divination. If Daphne was the type of dog who would fetch, the person could designate one toy for stay and another for go—but Daphne won’t retrieve an object, even when it’s been rubbed with beef jerky. There is one method that always works, or at least, that’s what it says in the advanced divination book: the poop divination.

The two of them may not have the training credentials to do it, but this dog and its human share a key trait: they’re stubborn. 

According to the ritual instructions, it’s critical that Daphne vomits up the chocolate. If her tiny body tries to metabolize it, it could kill her. 

The book explains the ritual in four steps:

1 Melt the chocolate on an open flame

2 Serve the soft chocolate to the deity

3 Wait for vomit

4 Observe shape of deity’s next stool and choose the illustration which best matches 

The last eight pages of the book are illustrations of poop formations. A soft sphere means prosperity. A long, thin cylinder means patience. A double-bodied beetle shape means calamity. 

Daphne’s person rubs her hands together. The sunlight is fading to dusk. She ignites a small fire and the tealight candles. This would be evening offering time, but they aren’t home, and there’s no filet mignon. The person prays. Please, eat the chocolate, and vomit it up promptly, so I can get us home to our cozy beds. 

Both person and dog shiver. The woman sings as she holds the metal dish with tongs over the small fire. Once the serving of chocolate has softened, she places the metal dish onto the earth to cool, and sprinkles the brown dome with crumbled beef jerky. 

She holds it up to Daphne. The dog sniffs. 

“I need you to tell me what you want,” the person says. 

Daphne sniffs the air, and tilts her head at her person, something she often did as a puppy. The person remembers waking up to puppy Daphne licking her face when they first moved into the Fort Greene apartment. She remembers Daphne's barks of exhilaration the first time she saw waves crashing on the beach. She remembers how Daphne licked her tears away when her mom’s request for a transfer back from Los Angeles was denied. 

Daphne leans toward the chocolate dome. The person realizes her dog will do it. Even with Daphne’s infinite wisdom, knowing that ingesting chocolate is a risk of death, she is willing. 

“No!” The person reaches down and shoves the whole dome of chocolate into her own mouth. It’s bitter. She swallows most of it, and swishes the remainder off her teeth with water from the Nalgene. 

The stimulation of the chocolate goes straight to her bloodstream. Her heart pounds. The rustle of the trees, in the dark, make shapes. She’s seeing poop formations in the air, in the dirt, in the shadows made by rocks and bushes. Finally, she curls up on the dirt and closes her eyes. Daphne snuggles up like a donut at her chest. The person cries, long and heavy sobs. She wraps herself around Daphne like a big donut. 

* * *

The next morning, Daphne’s person sleeps through the steepled shelter’s Sunday service. She never bothered to send a response to Apollo’s person after they stumbled home from the park. The last anyone saw of her, she disappeared into the trees. Maybe they’ll think she became one. 

The former tenant of her apartment, who sold her the bed frame, also left half a bottle of black hair dye. Daphne’s person follows the directions on the bottle.

When she emerges from the bathroom, Daphne glances up from her nap on the red velvet chair, blinks, and goes right back to sleep. Perhaps it wasn’t the shared hair shade that bonded them, after all. She’s starting to understand something that maybe she had always known. Dogs don’t judge you based on outside appearance. A dog looks at the heart. 

By now, all the good dogs are in their Sunday best, sniffing and mingling at the farmer’s market. Daphne’s person goes into the hallway and locks the door, leaving little Daffy barking alone. She’s never left the dog in the apartment by herself! But the barking stops when she reaches the sidewalk. Or, at least, she can’t hear it. 

With only her farmer’s market tote slung over her shoulder, she walks to Target. Where the heathens shop. 

Her adrenaline surges when she walks by a man on South Elliott, who is also without a dog. Maybe he doesn’t even have one! 

She's heard of such people, living among the righteous. They can get special permission from the government by claiming allergies. He smiles, but she blushes and looks away. 

By the time she exits through the store’s revolving door, her eyes are wide, for two reasons. First, she’s going to feed Daphne for a whole month for the cost of a single bottle of goat’s milk. Second, the smallest available bag of kibble won’t fit in her farmer’s market tote. She has to carry it out in the open. 

Daphne’s person walks with her chest high, mimicking the posture she saw on the Shiba Inu. Though the ritual did not work as intended, she has seen a truth more profound than anything taught in advanced training. Now she understands that the best way to make a dog happy is to be happy. 

No one pays attention to the newly black-haired woman marching home hugging a bag of kibble. They’re all too distracted by the rain clouds. 

To learn more about the soulful connection between humans and dogs, please check out my podcast, Spirit Doggies, which is a companion to this story.

Acknowledgements: Thank you to my book club, Martha and Angie, for being my first readers. And to my writing groups for your endless encouragement and profound feedback on earlier versions of this story that helped make it what it became: Liz, Jessica, and Allison; and Meredith, Eva, Suzanne, Nayomi, and Christine. A big thank you to VizionArtStudios for allowing me to use your gorgeous artwork!