Christopher Ibekwe sat on a broken bench outside the bus station. He saw three dogs of different breeds and different stages of manginess. They wandered across the street away from him. None had collars. All looked near death. Christopher never had a dog, but he felt bad for the three he saw. They looked mean, desperate, and starving. He decided that would be their names. Flies orbited each of the animals like they were each their own dying planet. Rib bones penetrated patchy dry hair. They were at the same time depressing and terrifying. It takes a lot to be terrified in that way in the daytime. Christopher loved animals. But he couldn’t help but look at these three with absolute disgust. He didn’t even have a desire to draw them. He had been drawing since he could remember. It was what he did. But those beasts were not something worth memorializing. These were the things of ancient, vulgar nightmares. He watched as they marched down the road, following the dusty dirt path and veering a corner into the fade. A dirge could’ve played, and it would have not been out of place. He was not sad to see them go.