Meg Mylchreest

Rosie

The beat up silver Pontiac was left running outside the pizza shop. I shot a look of desperation at my husband. I whipped my head back in the direction of the car. We were going to steal it. As I turned back to him to confirm he had already gone. I looked at the Pontiac, this time assuming I would see my husband hopping into the driver’s seat, but he wasn’t there. I heard him yell, “Whose car is that outside? We’ll pay $200 to anyone who can give us a ride right now!” I watched from the sidewalk through the corner store window. I realized he recognized the high school kid working the checkout counter. “He must be one of his students,” I thought out-loud. He jumped the counter and the boy led him back into the kitchen. He disappeared. I looked down in my arms. My girl was barely breathing. Her body was frail and lifeless. Her tongue which was usually pink and giving out endless kisses was ashen and hanging from her mouth. She was only a puppy, we only had her a year. She had already brought us a lifetime of joy but this couldn’t be it. We needed her.