...by Edgar Allen Poe.
A dog is howling east of here. That's nothing new. Sometimes I wake at night, startled, thinking someone is crying out for help, but once I manage to still my breathing I realize it's the poor dog going on and on. Sometimes I listen until I can almost see its breath curling up to the moon. The urge is always there to get up, pull on a parka and go sit with it. I'd like to think it would settle down, but maybe it would howl even more.