dinner_time ovenbird My dog eats dinner at seven o’clock. But he is a creature who runs on hope and innocence, so at six-thirty he comes to me with his soft sweetness and stares, thinking he might convince me to fill his bowl early. When staring doesn’t work he extends one paw and gently taps my leg as if to say, “excuse me, but have you noticed the way my ribs are protruding ever so slightly?” And I run my hands over his sides to see if it’s true and conclude that he can afford to wait until seven. At which point he puts both paws on my leg so he can bring his face level with mine so I’ll be sure to see his sunken eyes, withered with hunger, and then he gives the weakest groan followed by another round of staring, communicating more with silence than most people can with a novel’s worth of words. “My stomach is an empty void,” my canine companion insists. “All this unconditional love takes energy, you know.” And I see, suddenly, that he is courageous to expose his hunger. It’s a vulnerable act to come to someone and admit that you’ve been starving. We learn to hide our craving. “Oh, I’m not really hungry,” we say. “I had a snack earlier.” Or, “I had such a huge dinner last night that I don’t think I’ll ever eat again!” Meanwhile our want has the wingspan of a condor, but we tuck it tight to our bodies and hope it can keep us warm. Tell me about a day when you stretched out your appetite to its full extent. Tell me about a day when someone saw the hollows of your cheeks and said, “Here, I have so much more than I can eat alone.” Tell me about a day when you were satiated. 260625 what's it to you? who go blather from