Millie Floating, a piece of a short story... By David Biddle I was convinced by lunchtime on a very snowy December day that my wife, Deena, had murdered our dog, Millie. The dog had been urinating every other night in the same approximate part of the dining room carpet for months. She was getting old. Her bladder muscles may have been weakened by a near-death experience she had about a year earlier rooting through garbage sweetened with propylene glycol. Deena didn’t exactly despise Millie, she had just gotten to the point, I think, where she didn’t see that the benefits Millie brought to us outweighed the costs. Deena is an analyst with Wharton Econometrics. For my part, I put up with Millie—bad smells, mud in the car, morning and evening walks, the vet bills, urinating in the house—because I loved her desperate stupidity. She was a Weimaraner. The kids had wanted a Weimaraner because of those ridiculous New Yorker photos. Mary in particular, who was eight at the time, wanted a dog sh...
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