I ask Pilot tonight what he wants me to write about in this salty post. He doesn't care, but he makes some suggestions anyway. I can talk about the jellyfish that washed ashore a week ago. Crispy edges sealing in a gooey middle that smells like rotting water. I can talk about how the crows follow him around, how he doesn't mind but can't understand why they're wasting their time when I'm the one wielding the snacks.
"Do you want me to say anything about the dead bloated otter?" I ask him, remembering how fascinated we both were by it. Pilot thinks about this for a moment.
"No," he says finally. "People can't wrap their heads around cute furry things rotting, so they make an aww noise and a sad face and beat themselves up inside about not feeling anything. Say something about the barefoot old man collecting tiny shards of driftwood in a rubber shoe, instead. About how he looked at you like he was astonished that you could see him and for a moment you thought he was a ghost."
"That was weird."
"Yep. But no weirder than a middle-aged girl and her dog having a conversation."
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