My dog lay panting, almost making a vocal sound like she might be in pain - but not in a way I could help her
She had fallen, scared by an explosion on Independence day. For a week now she became less and less able
to not be dying. She wasn't healing at all.
It was hot, very hot (even this night). I opened the door to let the air in, and I saw a little girl; she
had something in her arms but I didn't see what it was. It looked like some kind of bird maybe. I shook my
head; the people around here sure don't care if their kids are walking the streets at night. So, I turned and
went to check on my old girl Lucky. She was still and a shadow seemed to flit away as I approached.
At the door sounded a faint muffled giggle and then a sound like crunching rocks. I went to see and a little bird
flew off the doorstep. Scattered biscuit crumbs. As it followed a little girl running down the street with a big
galloping dog into the darkness I began to cry: Good bye, Lucky. Be good. Listen to your new friend.
My dog was gone. Just her frame lay on the floor, a half eaten dog biscuit by her old quiet head. Death had
braids, you know. And my dog.
I patted my dead furry thing. "What a good girl", I whispered again and again to the silence.