TWENTY BEAUTIFUL MONTHS
by John J Koons
Darcey, about a year ago
24 hours and 18 minutes ago the vets at Cornell University animal hospital stopped trying to resuscitate my Darcey.
People on my country road go barreling by my house, confident that they are safe to do so in their big trucks.
In my bathrobe I lifted her off the pavement and put her in the back of our station wagon. After a half hour drive, labored breathing and the most woeful cry of pain, I still had hope; but less than five minutes after leaving my site and being wheeled into the medical area, they told me she wasn't breathing and her heart wasn't beating on it's own. The vet said they would continue trying but when I felt her jump through my midsection, I knew she was gone.
Halfway through the drive home I pulled over on the side of the highway and ripped open the cardboard "coffin." My baby was still warm.
It's unbearable. I don't even grieve for people this way. I brought her in the house, I pet and stroked her and rubbed her ears. But she was and is gone. Though my dogs saw her and inspected her, her buddy, Lucy, our Chihuahua, runs around the house crying, looking for her. Annie, my Border Collie, stays at my side to comfort me.
And now, I must go to bed only to wake, again, to a house without Darcey; to a life without Darcey.