The Christmas Blanket

We sat beneath the dimmed fluorescents in the saline-scented room.

The tiny dog lay cradled in his arms, motionless within the plaid Christmas blanket. Hours ago, the blanket had been a plaything to escape — but now, her shroud.

Our shoulders pressed together, I could feel the rhythm of his breathing: slow, shallow, unnatural.

An IV hung from her exposed arm. A halcyon poster assured us everything would be okay.

The vet removed his stethoscope from her chest and looked at us for the first time since the procedure began. I squeezed his kneecap a little tighter.

Softly, the vet said, “She has passed.”

The Mustard-Colored Room

The white cat felt heavy in my arms.

He was curled up in my lap as we sat on the loveseat in the small, mustard-colored room. His entire life, my lap had been his safe place — but tonight, I betrayed him here.

A vet sat across from us. I stared through him. 

The grief brochures stacked in the lamp-lit corner were meant to make us feel better. They didn’t.

When the vet spoke, his words didn’t register. 

But this was our second time here in as many years — I knew what he said.

The Wicker Chair

The sun felt hot on my freshly-burnt shoulders.

I was sitting on the back patio with my elbows on my knees. The cat lay sprawled at my feet — half under my chair, half in the sun. 

I counted the whiskers on her cheek, then gently ran my toes along her spine. I could feel every bone under her matted fur.

The wicker chair creaked as I leaned forward to scoop her up and set her in my lap.

I hugged her tight and scratched her head. She melted into my palm, purring softly. 

I didn’t put her down.

I Could’ve Saved You

They say I’m not to blame, but it doesn’t feel that way – I saw the signs and looked away.

The countdown is getting loud. The look-fors are all I think about.

I’ll never not regret choosing money and afternoons instead of you — because I could’ve saved you.