BIG DOG By Elizabeth Ingolia
She was sick and I knew it. Generally, when an active, young dog lies on the floor for three days straight without getting up to eat, drink, or relieve itself, something is wrong. Her name was Annie, but I always just called her “Big Dog” or “Mutt” instead. She was eight years old, with a pointy-poodle nose and a slender body, covered in tight curls of soft, apricot fur. Her eyes sparkled like tiny black stars through the messy mop of curls that grew atop her head. She had a unique look about her, and a unique personality to match. It was summer. I remember her looking up at me from the cool floor of my bedroom, her eyes afraid and urgent, but still sparkling like always. She still wagged her tail, still lifted her head, but refused to get up. I even resorted to offering her cheese from across the room, which is impossible to resist, even for most humans. But to my disappointment, she was completely disinterested and would not take anything. I told my parents that she didn't seem healthy, that something was definitely wrong, but they kept putting off taking her to the vet. That weekend we had scheduled a workday with my grandma, where I was supposed to spend the night at her house and clean up for her, and that was more important to them than a sick dog. And as reluctant as I was to go, my parents insisted that it would only be a day and that everything would be fine when I returned. “Come on, Liz,” my dad beckoned, swinging his key ring around his index finger while I finished up getting ready. “We gotta go, before it gets too dark.”
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