Thirty-Six
THERE’S NO THOUGHT in the moment, none, of dragging myself up into my truck and going after them, maybe even chasing them down.
No.
My only thought is getting to Bumper.
Getting to her unless it’s too late.
Despite the blows I’ve taken to my ribs and the side of my head and behind my knees, I get to my feet, wobbly at first, nearly going back down when I take my first step. Then I limp toward where I see my dog in the middle of our road.
The dog I’ve convinced myself has more lives than a cat, lying there without moving, all because she’d tried to come to my rescue.
I’m not calling out her name now.
Just saying a prayer, to the God I’m sure just listens, that she’s still alive.
I kneel down next to her and gently put a shaking hand to her head, my face close to hers.
I’m about to place my hand on her chest to see if she’s still breathing, but before I can, I’m not sure I can believe my eyes.
Because Bumper opens hers.
And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think she’s smiling at me, right before this tiny sound comes out of her, something between a bark and a whimper.
I’m close enough that she suddenly starts to lick my face.
Then she barks more loudly, a little more to this one, as if by some miracle she’s back to being herself.
“Yeah, pal,” I say, stroking her head. “I hear you.”
Then: “Forgot all over again how hard you are to kill.”
I carefully pick her up, cradling her in my arms, and add this:
“We both are, considering we’re both broken.”