Every day I’d walk home after school. Every day I’d cross that stupidly busy road where the speed limit was 50 mph but cars regularly went 60. Every day Mom would remind me to look both ways, to wait for the car to stop fully, to never trust the reckless drivers who had little regard for children or animals about to cross. Every day I think about the part of our small family that was lost on this road, a life lost that continues to remind me to be careful.
I grew up with you, for the five years you were alive. We named you Minnie, a tiny little thing that snuck into every nook cranny, and corner of our lives. You were part of my mornings, when I brought you out for walks before we raced back home. For me, it was to get ready for school, where I spent long mornings and afternoons studying. For you, it was waiting by the window, by the little porch where you could see the driveway and the cars roaring down the busy road, waiting for us to come home, maybe you were taking a nap, maybe you were playing with your toys.
Whenever you saw me walk into the driveway, whenever you saw mom’s Lexus pull into the driveway, I could always see the same reaction, your little brown legs jumping for joy, barely keeping balance on that slippery brown porch, your stumpy tail visibly wagging even from the distance, your short pink tongue sticking out, panting, when we walked through the door, your nose twitching trying to sniff out what we did and who we met that day, and how you jumped as high as you could to reach for our arms. In the evenings you curled up by our side or on a nearby chair, just watching us work or do whatever it is we humans do. In our backyard you loved to play with our frisbee, whenever I would fling the frisbee high into the air you always tried to catch it but your mouth was never big enough and the frisbee was too slippery to hold, but still you chased after it.
Every day I’d give you a little dental chew, the jagged green little bone, shaped like an odd toothbrush. I don’t know why you were so obsessed with it, but after every meal you practically begged for it. When I was young and could barely reach the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet where those dental chews lay, tempting you, I had to bring one of the chairs from the dining room while you jumped up and down, with absolutely no patience. I remember shushing you, imploring you to keep quiet, mom only said you could have one per day, if she hears you whining, you won’t be able to have any more.
By the time I was in middle school, when I was finally trusted to cross that stupidly busy road with you by my side, I was finally able to reach that top shelf. After walks, you would always go racing towards your food bowl, lapping up the remaining water. I would always have one of those dental bones for you waiting in my pocket, hiding it behind my back. You knew I was hiding it, you could definitely smell it. The bone was just the perfect size, small enough to fit in between your little brown paws with curly hair overlapping with sharp black nails, big enough to hold still as you knawed the bone down with your molars. Even from two months old you never needed help eating it, back when you were teething and your teeth were so sensitive, back when the bone would occasionally slip out from between your inexperienced paws. I would never forget to give it to you after walks, not when it made you that happy and excited.
Well, there was that one time I forgot. That one time after a particularly rigorous walk in the humid evening when you took a bit longer drinking water, when mom was refilling the bowl a few times, remarking at how thirsty you must be. That one time when I went upstairs to shower, putting that dental bone in my pocket to save for later. That one time when mom let you out into the backyard so you could enjoy the outdoors one last time before bedtime, that one time you somehow escaped from a hole in the backyard fence, where you raced onto the busy road, where that evil white sedan hit you. That one time when we raced you to the hospital, with my hair still dripping from the shower and my socks still wet, that dental bone still weighing heavy in my pocket. I wish I hadn’t forgotten. I wish I hadn’t taken our daily routine for granted.
After the surgery, after an overnight stay in the hospital where the only view for hours was the highway, where we saw countless cars speed by, mocking us, I still remember how weak you were. Your entire body bandaged. The doctor talking about the internal bleeding and how you weren’t going to make it. I remember that you couldn’t hold the dental bone between your bandaged paws, stained with dried blood, that you couldn’t even move your head to the side to use your molars to chew on the bone. I knew that you never got cold, never needed any extra heat even in the winter when temperatures would regularly hit below freezing, but in the hospital I remember tucking that blanket tight around you because you were shivering so badly, despite the heated room.
I remember having to cut the bone into little pieces, seeing all the little parts of my life that you became a part of become duller and somber as each piece was chewed up and swallowed. I remember kissing you goodbye, and leaving the hospital realizing that you still had one little piece left of that dental bone to eat, but it didn’t matter, you were gone already. That little piece that you left behind for us reminds me every day of what we’re missing, every morning when I get ready for school and you’re not there waiting by the chain where I kept the leash, when you’re not there by the window jumping for joy when we pull into the driveway, when I have nobody to throw the frisbee to in the backyard, when I don’t have your soft hair to soothe and comfort me while I do my school work late at night. I miss you and all the little pieces of our lives that you made so much better. I hope you’re enjoying that last little piece of the last dental bone that we buried you with, wherever you are now.