I was nosing about in Harvard Bookstore when an angel came to me in the form of a sausage dog. She was completely mute in the aisle between Economics and Philosophy, and I was stunned to silence. She wore her body like a well-groomed mink; her fur was lustrous as a newborn otter’s, sleeked and gleaming in the washing light. I dare not pat her, but got down on my knees and drank deeply from her endless eyes. The chatter of the world grew imperceptible, the shelves a shrine wavering in the air like a dream in a B movie. We shared a moment of devotion and repose. What she communicated was too deep for words, but I can feel it faintly nudging gently — a submarine in the belly of my heart. A leash was tugged and then she slipped my sight.


Judith Huang ’09 is Fiction and Poetry Editor of The Ichthus. She is a senior English concentrator in Currier House.

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