‘Would you look at her,’ Priscilla says of Silky Josephine. ‘Thin as a whip.’ 
     Last year, if you recall, Silky had a bit of a growth spurt. Not upwards or lengthwise, but roundwise—her girth. 
     We passed it off as baby fat for a while and then tried to put the blame on an imbalance, but it wound up being the hand that fed her who was responsible, going a little heavy on the treats and helpings. 
     Silky Josephine is a stocky girl. Other than her legs and tail, no part of her anatomy will ever be ‘thin as a whip’, as Priscilla said, but there’s a curve to her belly now that matches the ‘healthy dog’ images at her doctor’s office, and I thank Priscilla for noticing. 
     ‘Is the box okay?’ I ask her as she swoops by again. 
   Silky’s size was not the only thing that changed in Priscilla’s absence. The patio where she has always nested was screened in over the winter. I built a box beneath the patio’s eaves, safe from wind and rain, but without Priscilla there to consult, was really only able to guess at what might meet her nesting needs. 
     ‘Perfect,’ she says in a hover. ‘We’re mudding it now.’ 
     And off like a bullet she flies to meet Carl, already in the air above the meadow green.