Walt McDonald
	Big Dogs after War Decades of dogs jumped over his tailgate to sniff the news from pickups around the ranch and down state roads. Balanced, unbalanced in turns and stops, they watched my brother inside the cab, doing magic with wind flapping their lips. Troll was the first after World War Two, a fluffy St. Bernard that shoved and made that pickup rock. Back from war, my brother had faith in dogs, the only pets he trusted. I worked his ranch in summers, learned how to cuss when anything went wrong, heard nightmares that waked me down the hall, shouts no one but his wife could stand. Often, I found him in the barn at dawn with coffee, alone with that pre-war pickup he polished like a toy. Years swift as crops slid by, a long, fast litany of dogs big as horses. Attila, Goat Boy, Little Caesar learned that amazing trick to please him, legs shoving gravity away and soaring over the tailgate, the whole world swaying, drooled on, pounded with massive, wagging tails.