I open the door that leads to the backyard. Bright colors. The conflict of snowy winter and dirty spring. My recently deceased white dog comes slowly to me.
“How are you” – I’m asking
“The recent illness has knocked me down, now I’m less moving and lying more and so not bad” – my white friend answers me.
“Why black doesn’t talk?” – I ask, pointing to a dog that is alive.
“His time hasn’t come.”
I suggest scratching their bellies.
White dog lies on a black ground, a black dog on the white snow. They’re like yin and yang. I stroke them. We’re happy.
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