Flash in the Pan
A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights
Morning At Point Reyes
by Lorraine Babb
A mother fox holding something dark and dead in her jaws trots up the road like a small dog with a squeaky toy. She slips down into a bracken-filled slope to feed her family. And where does my mind go? To my little dog at home whom I dress up in jackets and hats and who never has to worry about where his next meal is coming from.
And then to my own children. Would I kill something cute and fluffy to feed them? With my bare hands? With my teeth? Well, probably, if I absolutely had to while feeling the same horror and disgust as I feel when I have to do other things to support my kids. Like be nicer to their dad. Or kiss my boss's ass. Or get up at 4 a.m. to drive someone to ice skating practice. Or watch my son strike out repeatedly at a Little League game while his teammates groan.
The dog doesn't make such demands on me, which is good for his health.
Lorraine Babb lives in beautiful Forestville with her husband, her toy poodle Gogie, and two crazy cats, Jelly and Cosmo. She currently teaches an intermediate poetry and fiction workshop at the San Francisco Writers Studio. Her short stories and personal essays have appeared in The San Francisco Chronicle, Dos Passos Review, Kalliope, and tens of other publications. Her most recent work has been hailed as "...not quite right for us at this time," but she remains ever hopeful that literary success is just around the next bend.
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