A Pitbull Named Dorothy
Boone and I are crunching ice beneath our boots, walking a pitbull named Dorothy. The dog isn’t mine, or Boone’s either. She belongs to a guy I just met, a guy with porno pin-ups in his kitchen, glossy pretzels of hairless flesh thumbtacked to the blistered wallpaper. A guy who said he’d trade Boone a dime bag for walking the dog because It’s cold as tits out there.