When I was small, my father had a few muscle cars and we lived in the house in Portage.
There was a field across from our house and my dog used to run in that field, unleashed and probably uncollared too although I can’t remember.
The street that I can recall was busy but not constantly.
This night my dog ran into the road and a car hit it. It was laying there and my father ran out into the middle of the road and started freaking out.
For the life or me I can’t remember the name of the dog. I think Arthur.
I remember my mother putting me in the front seat of the Roadrunner, and my dog lay on the back seat bleeding. We rushed to the vet.
Something in me before my dog even got hit, told me he would get hit long before he did. I used to watch my father yell at him to stay away from the road, why I stay on the stoop outside waiting for my mom or playing. I knew that and I was only four years old. Kids are intuitive.
The thing that scared me that night was not my dog on the back seat bleeding; but seeing my father crying in the front.
My dog died.
And I would never see my father cry that way again.
I know I felt bad; but I also knew we’d get another dog eventually.
I think my father was mad at himself.
My father is actually my step- father. Not to confuse the two.
J.Rounds (c)2016 ~Peaces of ME