That last horrible day we went to the vet because I knew he was in trouble.
And I left without him.
But first there was the bill to pay.
I handed over my Macy's Visa and paid $100.30. Apparently that's the price dead collies go for.
The young woman took my card and said she was sorry for my loss.
After I signed the little slip of paper with my silly name (He Is Dead, He Is Dead)
I handed it back to her and returned the pen to its spot on the desk.
Have a nice day, she chirped as I removed my keys from my purse with trembling hands.
I did not stab her
gouge her eyes out with my car keys
jump over the desk and kick her
punch her in the mouth
scream at her
insult her (the fat moron)
gash, scrape, or bruise her
disembowel, disgrace, humiliate her
leave her with a scar
pound on her till she shat herself
or return with a plate of cookies arsenic laced.
Instead I smiled through the tears and said,