You can tell by her eyes that she’s ready to go, you said, like you’d just discovered the Lost City of Atlantis.
How good of you to take notice: her beady black gaze, staring into nothingness, the mad grey, white and brown patches of fur around her mouth sticky and wet with yesterday’s garbage feast. It’s her time, you said, so why didn’t you do it sooner.
Her collar and tag stagger and rise with each wheeze. The collar was once bright pink-our little princess, you said-but now the hot sandy wind and the thick chain’s constant tugging rendered it torn and faded. You can barely see your long-forgotten phone number on the heart-shaped tag. I try to synchronize my own breathing to the tag’s rise and fall but have to stop because it’s like drowning.
Toothy grins on pretty gingham couches beam from faded greeting cards, inscriptions scrawled with shining rainbow colors now sun bleached: a smiling Chihuahua cradled in arms, thanking Dr. Bell for saving his life after a coyote tried to make him a meal. My mom and dad can’t thank you enough for helping me cross into doggie heaven, said a French bull wearing a flowered sweater, sitting in a silver bed with royal purple trim. No kids, just dogs, you’d said back then, and I agreed.
Kitty cat clock tick ticking the minutes that are hours because we all had to wait for you to come back from where ever. But they got busy again, so the seconds are an eternity. Can’t stay, you finally said. You kissed her head and walked out. Only her eyes followed you out, not mine. Mine stayed stuck to that happy pet wall of fame, deciding which empty card stuffed back in the kitchen drawer I should send, and which photo to use. And when the tech gently opened the door, syringe discreetly at her side, her hushed voice filling up the empty space, I wondered which address to send the ashes.
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