I’m late posting, but the drama’s done for the day.

This morning we buried little Karmen.

My daughter, who’s as much of a night owl as I am, called me over for a cup of Barry’s tea last night. We sat on the stoop and watched the little dog as she did her business. We lost sight of her in the shadows next to the fence. When we got up to call her back, I saw her in front of the gate at the driveway. As I headed back into the house for my shoes to chase after her, I heard a truck barreling down the road. It was midnight. I’m sure we woke the neighbors calling after our little dog who had never, ever approached the road before. My daughter checked around the house while I headed straight for the road with a flashlight, heart in my mouth. I saw a shadow. Hoped that was all it was. But the closer I got, I recognized her little bat ears (she was half French Bulldog, half chihuahua) and the pretty little purple sweater she wore. She lay on her side in the center of the road, her belly split. Entrails spilling out. I know. TMI. But I can’t get the sight out of my head. I wanted to spare my daughter, but she was right behind me as I kept saying, “No, no, no.”

I picked up the remains, grasping Karmen at the scruff of the neck. She’d died instantly. That much was a blessing. We placed her in a box until this morning. Then my father dug a grave. A very small grave.

Karmen was a rescue dog. She’d been found in a shed with two hundred other dogs, living in a small cage with a foot of feces pushed against the sides. She’d been in four rescue homes before she found my daughter who had the patience to potty train her. She was the happiest, sweetest dog. We’ll miss her. I don’t think either of us could feel more regret, more guilt. Nor can we stop crying.