Callan Wink - Dog Run Moon

She was too exhausted to even heat her soup, though she was ravenous. She opened a can and ate it cold, not bothering to pour it into a bowl. Tomorrow she’d wake up early and do her chores. She’d take a long hot bath, and after that she’d cook them something, maybe a pasta bake. That was easy enough. Some sausage, some pasta, spaghetti sauce, and cheese. She had all of the ingredients, and wouldn’t even have to go to the store. It was a satisfying feeling to have a day figured out like that. One of the few benefits of getting old, an enjoyable economy, short-term planning started to look a lot like long-term planning too.

She rinsed her soup can and spoon and drank a glass of water standing at the kitchen sink looking out the window. It was all but dark now and she could see down to Jason’s trailer. The lights were on, the blue glow of the TV faintly visible. Maybe it was none of her concern, but that girl should be in school. She’d tell him that tomorrow. It was obvious the TV was turning her brain to mush. She needed some decent clothes. Maybe she’d like to come over and feed the goats. Growing up in a place like Florida, she’d probably never been exposed to anything like that before. At the very least it would give her something to do besides setting fires. The wrong gust of wind in a couple of weeks when the grass got dry and things could go south in a hurry. She’d have to talk to Jason about that too.

She went to the back door and let Rocks out. He did a quick disdainful bout of nose- and rear-sniffing with the low-caste outside dogs. They came to her, all eight of them, mutts in varying shapes and sizes, all wagging their tails, snuffling at her hands, the more excitable ones among them jumping and trying to stick their snouts in her coat pocket. She made them all sit, a furred mass of anticipatory canine. She tossed them their biscuits one by one, and the air was soon full of the sound of happy crunching. She sat on her porch chair and she rubbed ears and tugged tails and scratched under chins. She’d always thought that petting a dog was the greatest activity in the world a person could engage in while thinking about other things.

Off to the other side of the field she could see her Red. The lone steer standing there, a silhouette, made small by the dark shapes of the mountains rising up behind it. While she petted her dogs she watched it, waiting for it to move — dip its head to graze, or lower itself to the ground, for sleep or something else — but it didn’t. It remained poised until the light was gone.

First and foremost, I’d like to thank my family — my parents especially — for encouraging me, a naturally lazy kid, to keep my nose in a book. A home devoid of television, and frequent trips to the library, set me on my current path, for better or worse, and for that I’m extremely grateful.

A big thanks to Greg Keeler, at Montana State University, one of the first people to encourage me in my writing at a point where otherwise I think I might have easily given it up.

Much appreciation to all the folks at the University of Wyoming M.F.A. program, a talented pool of writers and readers from whom I learned a great deal. Special thanks to Brad Watson — the fact that this book exists is due in large part to your generosity and insight. You really did change my life. Also, to Rattawut Lapscharoensap: Without your always brilliant criticism, many of these stories would be pale shadows of their current selves. And to Alyson Hagy, for your enthusiasm and advice. Your work ethic and overall approach to the writing life is something to which I aspire.

Kali Fajardo-Anstine, you’ve never once been boring. Thanks for calling me on my bullshit and semi-regularly telling me my writing sucks.

Peter Steinberg, you took a chance on a fishing guide in Montana. Thanks, and all the best to you.

Luling Osofsky, kindred spirit and wild animal, you’re a good friend and creator of so many things. Thank you for all the letters, lunches, and support.

To the Morley crew, especially Ben and Toby: Old friends are the best friends.

There are many folks in the windy city of Livingston, Montana, who have directly and indirectly influenced my life and writing. To all the fishing guides, here’s to another season on the river — keep living the dream. If this book sells any copies, drinks at the Murray are on me. Seriously. Don’t hold your breath.

Dan Lahren — world-class fisherman, chef, woodsman, repository of lore of all kinds, sacred and profane, and above all, always a true individual — thank you so much for all the stories, fishing, and meals. I look forward to many more.

Jim Harrison, thanks for the days on the river and for showing me that being a writer means, more than anything else, getting your work done.

Cole Thorne, let’s dance.

A number of editors at various magazines have done great work on many of these stories. Many, many thanks to Cressida Leyshon at The New Yorker. Your championing of my stories has much to do with this book’s becoming a reality. Also, thanks to Deborah Treisman at The New Yorker, and to Laura Barber at Granta.

I’ve been lucky enough to spend time at several great residencies while working on various stages of this book. Thanks so much to Willapa Bay AiR, the Brush Creek Arts Foundation, Madroño Ranch, and the Vermont Studio Center.

To Chris Parris-Lamb, a stellar agent, thanks for taking me on. And, finally, thank you, Noah Eaker, my tireless editor at the Dial Press, for your patience, enthusiasm, and keen eye — I’m exceedingly grateful.

CALLAN WINK was born in Michigan in 1984. He lives in Livingston, Montana, where he is a fly-fishing guide on the Yellowstone River. He is the recipient of an NEA Creative Writing Fellowship and a Stegner Fellowship at Stanford University. His work has been published in The New Yorker, Granta, Men’s Journal, and The Best American Short Stories.