make it sail

The dog once heard his master claim that “He” would never do it again. 

“He” had said we were safe from that fate; but not all fate, apparently. 

The house didn’t used to be in a gorge. Or the gorge didn’t use to be around the house. The dog didn’t have the long-term memory necessary to remember landscape details. 

It was a poorly crafted vessel, and the master had succumbed to exposure in what was perhaps a world record worthy time, if there had been a world in which to keep records. 

The news masters talked about colliders and risks and climates but this meant little to a dog. 

One day, everything just shook. It didn’t stop for a long time. The dog had hid. When he crawled out from underneath a thrift store couch, the master was calling for him to set sail. They floated on a vaguely muddy ad hoc river system, indistinguishable blobs floating and smacking against the hull, sun everywhere. 

Now they floated to the house, and the dog was confused, because the house had been gone for a long time. Or he had been gone for a long time. 

He turned to the rotund corpse of the master and said

“Fuck it, even I can’t be this pretentious”

Then the aliens came.