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	Crossing the low dune to the beach, the dog 

	turned west. That seemed deliberate. I gave 

	her some slack; and was pulled, following, to see 

	many gulls in gaggle at the head, a spit, 

	and the gulls were spitting! so, possibilities 

	of beached fish. As we neared, they all skittered 

	and rose; the dog leapt into a big rush -- 

	a fair-sized southern whiting pecked half clean 

	on gull-foot-trampled sand, and she galloping off --   

	And seemed reluctant to return. At last   

	came back to see what I was pointing to.   

	She sniffed but was unsure. Too much spattering 

	of grit? It never bothered her before -- 

	I bent down, inhaling; and lifted it; 

	half fish, its bottom side still unblemished, 

	smelling fresh to me; tossed it into waves, 

	the dog after it, jumping in, sniffing; 

	and, after some minutes, she thrust her head   

	underwater, and pulled it out, dropped it   

	at the sea edge and danced away and back and 

	around but never touched the corpse again.   

	Richard Kessling / Lawrence Upton