Black Fur Bookends Crouching next to my little dog I comb her on the balcony, high above the car-studded street. Neat and small she is, with short fur, shiny and dark (and how it sheds on the white apartment tiles); a lover of comfort and admiration, she stands entranced and delighted while I brush her fur. Her black, black fur. My oldest dog, how big you were! Your rough coat like the wind-frayed grass around Granny’s house, you’d creep inside and wedge under the table, great guilt of presumption around your shoulders … How quiet and true your blackness, in…