I keep trying to explain it to Ringo. My dog, a golden retriever. I didn’t mean to leave it behind. Not at first anyway. Ringo’s willing to fetch whatever it is, but I keep trying to explain. We just can’t go there. Private property. The law. The right to bear arms. What’s left be damned. The River Styx in your craw, my pet peeve. The apple of discord, my Venus de Milo, retrieved from a poor farmer’s field. Her arms around another man. He’ll never understand. Ringo. Sniffing the trace of air. The candied root of the sea holly, her aphrodisiac. A golden sun setting in footprints in the sand.