"Why does the dog chew on rocks?" I asked the old man. He was the estate's caretaker, old and gruff with a face thick like leather from years of harsh weather and a body stooped from difficult living. He had raised the dog since it was a pup. A golden retriever but, long since retired from her hunting days, spent her time getting patted by the caretaker, eating, sleeping, and chewing on rocks. "don't know," he said, not taking his eyes off the dog. "It must hurt her teeth, don't you think?" I said. He watched the dog and said, "I think she'd stop if it hurt her teeth, don't you?" I looked from the old dog back to the older man, who still hadn't taken his eyes off the retriever. Then I turned my attention back to the dog, who fiercely held my gaze as she chewed her rock.