Benevolence by Tony Hoagland
When my father dies and comes back as a dog, I already know what his favorite sound will be: the soft, almost inaudible gasp as the rubber lips of the refrigerator door unstick, followed by that arctic exhalation of cold air; then the cracking of the ice-cube tray above the sink and the quiet ching the cubes make when dropped into a glass. Unable to pronounce the name of his favorite drink, or to express his preference for single malt, he will utter one sharp bark and point the wet black arrow of his nose imperatively up at the bottle on the shelf, then seat himself before me, trembling, expectant, water pouring down the long pink dangle of his tongue as the memory of pleasure from his former life shakes him like a tail. What I’ll remember as I tower over him, holding a dripping, whiskey-flavored cube above his open mouth, relishing the power rushing through my veins the way it rushed through his, what I’ll remember as I stand there is the hundred clever ...