It is snowing and cold-rainy-sloppy out. Also it’s not normal for your stomach to hurt for two days straight.

The doctor on tv advises against anxiety’s negative influences upon fertility, and I feel the tightness in my body, my neck and shoulders. My gut and ovaries screech with cramp. No baby will lodge in poisoned ground.

I flop across the bed on my sour belly.

Floyd follows me up Lulu’s Straircase and stands staring into my face, inches away. I tell him to lie down, so he lies down across my forearm and begins to lick my hand. The feeling of warm dog across my arm, breathing dog breath into my ear, the warm scent of sleepy dog feet folded underneath my nose.

My stomach hurts a little less.

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