Short Story In the back yard they buried a bone for the dog. They buried the dog bone so that their dog would go out and dig it up, maybe he would bury it again. They meant for the dog to enjoy the digging and the bone so much that the dog would bury bones on its own. They loved the idea of dogs who buried bones, they thought that dogs who buried bones were extraordinary dogs, or at least, they liked the idea of a dog who buried bones. But the dog didnt bury bones. And not only that, it didnt like the outdoors either. It wasn't a small dog or a dog who resemabled a small dog. It was just a dog, short hair, busy eyes even when it was laying down with its face on its paws. And it layed on the back porch, its little eyes darting as it waited and its tail wagged whenever someone passed the door. They named their dog crustacean. They lived at the beach when they got him and the name was meaningful then. It meant nothing now, and since they'd moved inland, the dog, now not quite a puppy, was always lying on the back porch and they were sure that since the once frisky fellow had loved to run and jump through waves, well he must necessarialy love digging in dirt, too. His owners didn't understand him quite as they'd wished, and the dog who grew strong and spirited by the water seemed to flatten on the back porch. And he layed and he layed, and life would invaribly stream through sun rain fog and snow, year in and year out because the world is but one steady stream for a dog across the floor. And the bone, though once such a hearty dream for the owners of the once frolicking feller', lay in its shallow grave all the days of the dog's life.