Yamille Moss

Blessing Dogs

The humans are all gone.

Last Sunday I buried a bone and went to sleep.

This week was a blubbering and drooling blur. And this Sunday, today’s Sunday, which should really be renamed, because it is cloudy and covered and there is no sun. This Sunday my bone was gone. In its place was a tree where I had buried it. A big, hulking tree that couldn’t have grown to that size in a week. But sometimes the neighborhood kittens get quite big overnight. Sometimes the puppies' barks deepen and it is only the day after they learned how to yap. So maybe the tree did grow quickly, maybe the soil is good and maybe, if I ask really politely, it will give me my bone back.

So I ask. And the tree doesn’t talk. It doesn’t have opinions or negotiations. It doesn’t have fruit or vegetables or anything other than dark green leaves. The sun sets and I sleep. The tree shades me from the morning sun, and the afternoon heat, and suddenly I am always under it. I come to like it more than the house and my many, many beds. The tree doesn’t grow anymore. A week passes then two.

I babysit for my sister, carry the puppies one by one in my mouth, careful not to cut them on my teeth. They play in the sprinklers at the park and race each other back home. My sister thanks me, gnawing on her favorite bone. I think of the tree.

When I arrive back home, on the branch is something white and obtuse. At the slightest shake the object falls. Wrapped in white wrapping paper, protected by a green ribbon, is my bone. I can smell it. I peel away the layers and lick at it. I chew and chew and chew and chew until it exhausts me. I curl myself into a C at the tree’s base.

In the morning, something falls on my head and I wake up with a start. A bone. Not my bone, but a new bone. One that smells like summer and sprinklers and puppies. I look up. The tree has bore fruit: all variations of chewable bones.

Beyond the wooden fence of my backyard, a nosy bloodhound looking over is wagging his tail excitedly. Yesterday his plum tree started bearing beef jerky flavored plums.

Outside of our suburb, in a high rise, a tabby cat is discovering strawberries that taste like turkey.

All around the city, little miracles are sprouting.

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Yamille (Millie) Moss is a Black sapphic catgirl and Bahamian writer currently in the second year of their MFA program at Fresno State. Their pronouns are she/they. They are an Editorial Assistant for The Normal School and also a member of the San Joaquin Literary Association. They served as the Editorial Assistant for Fresno State’s Young Writers’ Conference and have published several articles on Fresno State’s College of Arts and Humanities blog. She was also the Social Media Intern at 2023's CSU Summer Arts. You can find her on Instagram @ms.millie_m