There are things I love and then there are things I can't have. The two usually overlap like concentric circles or like hands folded gently across my lap. They whine for me the way a dog would, nudging his wet nose against my elbow. I can't give him my time or he'll take it all. For now, I'll watch over him, feed him in the mornings, and hope that he doesn't bark loudly or scare the neighbors or bite someone. If there's wolf in him, what's in me that's not me? What separates barking from howling from writing? Perhaps we, too, are like concentric circles.