When my dog hears the neighbor's baby cry, he begins to howl, his head thrown back. He's all heartbreak and hollow throat, tenderness rising in each ululation. He's a saxophone of sadness, a shepherd calling for his stray. I've read that baying is both a sign of territory and a reaching out for whatever lies beyond: home and loss, how can they be understood without each other? Once I had an outdoor dog who sang every day at noon when the Angelus belled from the corner church. She was a plain dog but I could prove, contrary to all the theologians, that at least once a day she had a soul. I've always loved dogs that look like wolves, loved stories of wolves: the alphas, the bullies, the bachelors. We have to forgive them when they break into our fenced-off pastures, lured by the lull of a grazing herd, or a complacent flock, heads bent down. Prey, it's called. At night wolves chorus into the trackless air, the range of their song riding far from their bodies till they think the stars will hear it and be moved, almost to breaking, while my poor dog stands alone on the deck, howling into the canyon's breadth, as if he's like me, looking for a place where his song will carry. Dogs know, if there is solace to be had, their voice will find it. This air is made for lamentation.