Drowsy in the black cradle
of a nighttime car, I watch yellow 

patches of street light slide
by, wash over me in brief

bright pulses until, abruptly,
they stop. My sister rouses  

beside me and yawns, Daddy, 
why aren’t we moving?   

From behind the wheel, our father
watches the taillights of his mother’s  

car, wondering the same thing.
We’ve been caravanning

back from some weekend
adventure, but now we stop  

and remain stopped. Finally
my grandmother steps out

onto the shoulder. Dad follows,
and they speak muffled words

behind the car door. A bump,
they say, a dog, and 

Is it wearing a collar?
My mother silently exits  

the vehicle, returns a moment later.
I want to see the dog, I say. I love dogs.  

No, she gently scolds. Not this one.
Daddy and Grandma are trying  

to get a number, knock
on a front door, make a phone call.   

Is it still alive?
Yes. Barely.  

I say, We should take it to the vet,
but her answer is, No,  

honey. It won’t live that long,
which makes me sad, imagining 

a cute dog lying there, still
soft and warm, wearing the collar 

someone who loved it
buckled around its neck,  

but drawing helpless last
breaths because we won’t even try

to take it to the vet.
We wait and wait until

the owners show up. No one
ever lets me see the dog,  

and Grandma, who loves
all God’s creatures, even mice  

and spiders, cries and cries,
and I sit still

holding the pink stuffed
animal she gave me that day,

wishing I could just see that dog,
but everything is dark.