The dog glanced at the woman, for whom he seemed to have no particular affinity. Yet he raised one leg and let it hang until I grasped it.

See? said the woman. Now watch this. Lie down!

The dog eased himself gingerly, grudgingly to the floor.

Roll over!

The dog rolled over quickly, then jumped up into a rigid, embarrassed posture.

Speak!

The dog barked once, twice. His voice was mournful. He resumed his original position, sitting quietly, watching the people who came and went through the front door.

Amazing, isn’t it, said the woman.

In one hand I held his leash, and in the crook of my other arm, I cradled the man’s head. Around us, people hustled to their cars with what they’d bought.

When we got home, I took him to a small clearing. I unbolted his leash and removed his collar. Then, utilizing a set of techniques I’d devised, I untrained him. Little Jim struggled and cried. He was confused. At last he understood. When we returned to the house, he zigged and zagged with a buoyant tail. He stopped to flop and roll on his back in the dirt. He flushed some squirrels from a bush and bounded off in a howl.

Inside, I got us some cool water and slices of roast. The head of the rescued man sat on the sill of the picture window that overlooked the pond. The green reflection of the water made the man look like he might be imminently, violently sick.

I picked up the man’s head. It was smaller than life—I could hold it in one hand. I studied it, then placed it back on the sill. There it sat, and there it continues to sit—another vulnerable relic collecting dust.

LEMONS

My lemons are coming along fat but misshapen, some better than others, and some have fallen already to the ground. I grate their skins, and when they are bald and soft and white, slice and squeeze them limp.

I let her in and touch her shoulders. She has brought nothing with her.

The thing I’ve made is resting. It has a powder I don’t like to disturb, but I cut it apart and set it between us. She does not touch her fork but continues to talk.

I lift a portion onto her plate. She severs a wedge and brings it to her mouth. She eats slowly, with sober ownership. The interior crumbles and the morning has begun to disappear. By night it will be gone.

I get the pitcher and pour out two sour glasses. I look at the shrubs as I drink. My glass drips down my front. The spots widen across the ridges and valleys of cloth.

When she leaves I will give her the rest of it, pressed in plastic. I’ll close the door on her back. I will wash my glass and hers, shake the cloth in the lawn, dump the skins in the can. As I move from room to room, fresh ones will start to come. They will tumble down one after another. They will knock me on the head and roll across the floor, across rooms, out into the street, and farther, even, than that.