I bought a book of Sam Shepard's plays at a thrift store, a book that looks like it has spent its life in the back of a pickup, or in a hippie girl's tote bag, or on a bar slick with foamy beer and pretzel crumbs.
I hold the book between my knees as I crouch forward to catch the light for reading. My dog ambles over and sniffs the book. She takes a lick of it and sniffs some more. Then a couple more licks and sniffs again, then moves away.
Whatever brought her to the book, she got it.