By Linda Chandanais
“Three o’clock? Okay.”
“They’ll do it in the van. She freaks at the vet’s … she can’t go in fear.”
Deaf, has tumors, and now her legs are done.
Her tail thumps, she sees us through cataract-clouded eyes.
The parking lot; vet joins us; needle in hand.
Words of love, thanks, apologies, given, but not heard.
Thump, thump, thump, she sees us. We’re here, we’re here.
We drive home, hold her close, caress.
“When we rescued her, she was the size of her head, remember?”
Rescued her? That’s not the way it went.
We bury her under the lilacs bushes.
“I breathe, I write, I breathe, I write again.” – the writer