She strains to get in the car before you even open the door.
So many adventures started in the car: learning to swim at Navajo Lake in New Mexico, running along mountain trails in the Colorado foothills, bathing in the waterfalls you didn’t even know existed in Ohio.
LINEAR FOREIGN BODY BY MORGAN ROSE-MARIE 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 126
THE END
You find yourself in a tiny room. You’re not alone, though it feels like it, and then maybe you want to be alone. The room feels crowded, four people and a dog packed into a space that seems more suited for two people.
The conversation dwindles. You weren’t following it anyway, but now that it has ended, you swear you can feel the silence, silent waves of sonic boom knocking you sideways.
In less than a minute, two of the people are out the door, but you still feel claustrophobic.
How did you get here?
Thinking precisely, you drove to this pet clinic. Go to THE DRIVE.
Thinking big picture, this is the end of a terrible week with her. Go to THE LAST WEEK.
THE DRIVE
She strains to get in the car before you even open the door.
So many adventures started in the car: learning to swim at Navajo Lake in New Mexico, running along mountain trails in the Colorado foothills, bathing in the waterfalls you didn’t even know existed in Ohio.
The drive takes three minutes. The clinic is just up the road from the house you rent.
But you re-live years and years and years, nine of them, in those three minutes. Then you’re choking because time is slipping by too fast, and you want the car and time to slow slow slow.
When you arrive at the clinic, she refuses to get out.
You know she knows, and you think you’re going to be sick.
You open the back door, and she scoots to the other side. You go to that side and open the door, and she jumps to the front.
Every door is open, and she’s staring at you, and you’re sure everything left in you is going to come up and out.
Finally, you gather a blanket to cover her shaved back, and you scoop her up. You take her into the clinic.