In the canoe, I smoothed our dog’s gold head as he stiffened and arched his neck, eyes glazed. We took off our eclipse glasses and watched him instead. After a minute, then another, you said, We’re going back to shore, and hauled the anchor up. The dog, strangely hunched, tried again to stand, to circle, to lift his head and straighten his paw. The canoe rocked. Meanwhile the moon advanced, the wind died, the lake turned to glass. Algae bloomed, luminous green fog, around a sunken tree. At the surface, a painted turtle paused and considered us. Time didn’t stop, but it stuttered and ripped a little. Light became water and enveloped us; a faraway car passed, headlights on. As you paddled in silvery half-light, the canoe rocked and the dog struggled on, even his whiskers detailed in the sharp shadow that fell on the hull.