This is The Writer's Voice, new fiction from The New Yorker.

I'm Deborah Treasman, fiction editor at The New Yorker.

On this episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear T. Corragason Boyle, read his story,

Are We Not Men, from the November 7th, 2016 issue of the magazine.

Boyle is the author of 16 novels, including The Harder They Come and the Terranauts, which came out last month.

He's published more than two dozen stories in The New Yorker.

Now here's T. Coragoson Boyle.

Music here's T. Coragison Boyle. Are we not men?

The dog was the color of a maraschino cherry, and what it had in its jaws I couldn't

quite make out at first, not until it parked itself under the hydrangeas and began throttling

the thing.

This little episode would have played itself out without my even noticing, except that

I'd gone to the stove to put the kettle on for a cup of tea and happened to glance out the window at the front lawn. The lawn, a lush blue-green that

managed to hint at both the turquoise of the sea and the veridian of a Kentucky meadow,

was something I took special pride in, and any wandering dog, no matter its chromatics,

was an irritation to me. The seat had been pricey, a blend of

chewings, fescue, bayia, and zoisia, incorporating a gene from a species of algae that allowed

it to glow under the porch light at night. And while it was both disease and drought resistant,

it didn't take well to foot traffic, especially four-footed traffic. I stepped out onto the porch and clapped my hands, thinking to shoe the dog away, but it didn't move.

Actually, it did, but only to flex its shoulders and tighten its jaws around its prey,

which I now saw was my neighbor Allison's pet micro-pig.

The pig itself, doe-eyed and no bigger than a pecanese, didn't seem to be struggling

...