I was nine. We were on the way to the airport to pick up my grandmother who was coming for Christmas. It was rush hour. The traffic was heavy and I thought at the time, fast. I was sitting in the back seat with my brothers and up ahead, I saw a small dog in the median. I knew immediately that he was going to make a dash for it and that he wouldn't make it. I screamed for my Dad to stop the car. As he slowed, the dog was hit by the car in front of us. He flipped high in the air landing on his back. With his legs flailing, he tried to get up and out of the way of oncoming traffic. There was blood on the road. I started to cry and begged my parents to stop the car so we could help. My father said we couldn't. My Mother told me the dog would be dead by then. My brothers laughed as I cried harder. And then, my mother laughed as she told me I was being really silly. That made my brothers go into convulsive gasps and dying dog displays of flailing arms and legs. I remember looking back and seeing him struggling and attempting to get up several more times and I vowed never to cry again in front of anyone. So far, so good.
in the graveyard
my best friend