Baseball practice was nearly over when the car jumped the park’s sidewalk. We ran to it, boys in cleats, surrounding the driver wailing on her knees by the German shepherd panting on its side, its tongue dark and forgiving. How she loved dogs, how could this have happened, God, how could it. The dog took its time dying and I left before it did, the pavement wet under it. At home my room was on fire with sunset. The walls blazed red and I was at their mercy. The dog was gone. Death was a nowhere we had in common.
Don Kraemer is a teacher and writer living in Claremont, California.