text: The world fades in, blurry around the edges. You lay in the center, and your face stares expressionless into the void. I kneel down, placing my hands upon your fur as if to see that you’re okay, I do this sometimes, often earning a soft sound of annoyance or curiosity for my effort. You are silent. You are still. I fall to my knees, and my memory begins to falter. Someone is screaming, pleading, praying. It’s me, but it doesn’t feel like me. This can’t be happening, not to me and not to you. But it is. My phone. I need to grab it, to call her, to ask, ‘What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?’ It’s so far away, I don’t want to leave you. Time seems to skip forward, and I am desperately trying to tell her. I don’t remember getting my phone, and the television is off now, seconds of my life that vanished in my fervor. I wait downstairs, call her again, trying to see where she is. ‘Not here, not yet.’ I tell her that I’ll start walking, I know the way. Instead, I run. Bare feet slap on concrete, dodging glass and stones. The carrier is heavy in my arms, my legs burn, my breathing short as I run, as if trying to flee from the specter that has its eyes set on you. My throat hurts, and yet I talk to you. I tell you that everything is going to be okay. People stare at me as they drive past, the frantic woman with wild hair dressed only in her pajamas. I ignore them and look down to see you slide in your transport, unnatural and limp. I don’t look down again. The honk of a horn, the squeal of tires, the concerned look of a familiar face. I’m barely in the car before I tell her, scream at her, to go. We’re there much faster now, and my mind catches up with my body. The vet comes out minutes after you go in. The shake of her head is barely visible through tear-streaked eyes. ‘Blood clot,’ and, ‘Instantaneous’ wash over me in equal measures, and the sobs taper off into stunned silence. I hold you in my arms, the last time I ever will. You’re colder now, even swaddled in a blanket, and your eyes are still open, your tongue hanging out like some mockery of who you once were. You don’t look the same, no longer the excited little child circling my feet, excited by everything life had to offer in a way I’ve never seen before. I bend over, and I kiss your forehead, as if to send you off into your slumber, and the vet comes to take you away. You’re gone, but you’re not. Not for me, not for her, and not for your brother. He can’t understand where you went. He waits for you to jump out at him. You don’t. The world moves on. They celebrate in the streets, a victory long hoped for. They didn’t know about you, but I did. And I am numb. I am numb. I am numb.