HH:MM:10

Trigger warning: pet death

Ten. Panting, sweating, heart beating violently. I feel it in my throat. The motion is nauseating. A steady rhythm denoting the continuation of life, and forceful enough to make one sick. I pedaled frantically in pursuit of my best friend. The street a black velvety expanse of freshly paved road. This felt like the longest distance anyone could travel. The incline unrelenting as I was unable to keep up with her pace. Shadoe stops in the middle of the black sea and looks behind her. I call out her name. This is a challenge and she is excited to accept it. The thrill of the chase. She wants me to get closer before continuing to run.  

Her fur was a gentle golden brown, the way light looks when it is shining through a bottle of maple syrup held up to the sun, a patch of muted black on her back. The markings were a pale facsimile of the pattern worn by her mother. From her neck and down her chest was a blanket of white that reminded me of pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream.  

Nine. I named her Shadoe because I loved the movie Homeward Bound. I had chosen the unique spelling because her eyes reminded me of a beautiful fawn, or the calf, Norman, from City Slickers. My mom laughed and told me there was an actor named Shadoe Stevens who spelled his name the same way, but I had no idea who that was. She was my shadow though, the one who would follow me from room to room, who would crawl into bed with me at the end of every day, and cuddle against me until I woke up.  

I’m cursing her and demanding she come back. She stands motionless and staring at me, not noticing anything that is happening around her. I see the soft pumpkin pie neck and the black collar around it. I can’t wait to get a grip on that necklace so I can bring her home. 

Eight. Coming home every day was a respite from the litany of criticism I would receive from my peers. Being an emotional child, I was often called “psycho”, or, if that label was tired, I was “cross-eyed freak” because of my lazy eye. One campus aide would vent their life’s frustration out on me by telling me I was a “cry baby” and asking me if I was going to cry. The school administration staff was sick of seeing me in their offices to complain about how badly the other children treated me, and over time, I became their biggest problem, not the bullies.  

Shadoe was a little wild. A streak she got from her mother; a Rhodesian Ridgeback mix named Princess. Princess had given birth to Shadoe in our home and Shadoe’s father, a Pitbull mix, lived up the street only three houses from ours. From that litter, we decided to keep Shadoe because of the strong connection her and I had formed. Her wildness would often manifest in her desire to bolt out the front door whenever it was open long enough for her to shoot by. This always resulted in a long chase around the neighborhood. It was a dangerous game fraught with my anxiety and attempted bargaining with a creature whose understanding of the English language was limited. But it always ended with Shadoe coming home. 

Whenever my friend Sarah would come over, she always ended up letting the dogs out. Sarah was very tall and large for a seventh-grade girl. She had blond hair, blue eyes, and was one of the clumsiest, least self-aware people I had ever met up to that point. Today was no different. Sarah had opened the front door and Shadoe took the opportunity to run out into the street. Off to the races! I grabbed my bike and chased after her. Same dance, different day.   

Seven. Shadoe was the first instance of unconditional love in my life. All other forms of affection seemed to be punctuated by the condition of whether my feelings were the source of inconvenience to those who were causing me pain. I would talk to her and tell her my problems, and she would stay with me, her big brown eyes and dancing eyebrows. Never getting up to leave in the middle of a conversation or a session of crying. Unlike my friends at school, Shadoe was not prone to bouts of middle school dramatics. We never participated in the cycle of friend turned enemy back to friend.   

When I was much younger, a friend’s youngest sister had told me that their mother hated when I would come over. I remember their mother looking shocked and ashamed that her youngest child would betray her trust. It was the first time I had ever felt like I was in opposition of authority. That something was wrong with me.  

My mother would spend her evenings drinking cheap beer and smoking weed with Beverlyandjim, who lived next door to us. Beverlyandjim and their brother Loren. Loren smelled like sweet burning plastic and extremely paranoid. He had once been abducted by aliens and slept on a waterbed. These were the neighbors, a convenient distance of one full house, but it made mom feel a million miles away. Shadoe was a constant in my world. A loyalty so consistent, I may have taken it for granted.  

A black chariot in the form of a lifted truck is coming down the hill behind her. The size of the thing growing larger as it comes closer. This is how perspective works. I’ve had doctors tell me that due to my lazy eye, there is no possible way I have any depth perception, but I know what I saw. The impossible space between the ground and the bottom of the truck’s body becoming clearer as it heads toward us. Toward her.  

Six. I’m shouting and begging for her to get out of the middle of the street. Shadoe continues to stare at me, not noticing the approaching vehicle. I can’t get there in time. She has to move. Please move.  

I’m trying to get closer. I’m not fast enough. The hill is too steep. STOP! I’m screaming at the truck now. I don’t understand the lift. I don’t understand the speed. I can’t see the driver. 

Five. The front left tire, this would be my right. She’s lined up perfectly. Please don’t do this to me. 

Four. Impact. I watch as she spins clockwise, the truck continuing to pass. She falls to the ground. 

Three. I scream. I drop my bike and run. My heart racing, I feel no tears. Only dread. This isn’t real. This doesn’t actually happen in real life. 

Two. I’m standing over her, blood pooling beneath her. The ground is so black, and the fluid is so thick. Her eyes are open and a wide mischievous grin on her lips. The man in the truck pulls over. He stands by his steed, silent and gawking. Another vehicle pulls over on the wrong side of the road and the driver is suddenly by my side. He picks her up and brings her out of the street. His short sleeves on his white T-shirt are rolled up. His dark hair is coiffed and his biceps look strong. He reminds me of a greaser from the movies. I think of the S.E. Hinton books I’d recently read. He smells good, like safety. 

One. “Why didn’t you stop?” It’s all I can say. I don’t know if she is gone. The man who pulled over on the wrong side of the street holds me in his arms. Why does he smell so fucking good? I don’t cry, but I want to. The man from the lifted truck blames me because Shadoe wasn’t wearing a leash. Someone calls my dad while I hold on tightly to the man, who looks like a greaser.