Audrey Hepburn

I mentor a teenage young lady in creative writing. I wrote this at our last session, and I think it turned out pretty well. I was trying to have two characters, rising action, and a resolution. It's based on a true story. love, Rachel
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THE email said: So, don't get upset, Audrey Hepburn had emergency surgery last night, but she's ok now. Your dad and I took her to the 24-hour pet hospital, because I woke up and heard the coyotes howling, and I knew something was wrong with the animals. the cat was meowing weird when I let them out of the garage, and Audrey was slow and breathing funny-- like a strange whistle.

She has a thing called bloat. Lots of dogs die from it, but we got her to the vet in time. She's on doggy morphine.
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I don't feel upset. I imagine what it would be like to wake up and have a dead-dog email instead of a post-op dog email. I feel another-world sadness. In another world, I could have been sobbing and groaning into my pillow. But in this real world, I am saved from all that-- my dog was almost dead, but in the end, is not.

We got her at the pound-- she was so happy to see us, it felt right to choose her. But when we got home, she freaked out. She ran paces around the cream-colored couches, cowered and yipped at my dad. Yellow spots set into the cream rug; she wouldn't even pee outside, but then sprinkled the foor inside when we weren't looking. She must have been abused, that's why she's so anxious, we said. I caught my mom feeding her a pat of butter. The next day, I went back to college for the new semester.

Audrey Hepburn is a fetching dog. People always want to pet her, until she backs away from them in fear. She's got a fox-like face, brown fur, brown sweetheart eyes and a bushy tail. We us a red collar and leash, because it looks so lovely on her.

But it's the end of winter, and and my parents haven't breushed her enough, and haven't bathed her. Her undercoat is faded and shedding on the cream-colored couches, and her fur is tacky and smells faintly. She looks sad and worried when I drive to the suburbs to see her. She rolls over and my intestines tighten and my throat closes because I can see her shaved stomach, the scabby dog nipples, and grey skin, finally revealed from underneath all that dark fur. There is a long and puckering scar. I fairly catch silver bits of staples and stitches. At the tender flap of her inner thigh, there's strawberry-red bruising-- from surgery? My heart aches, and I clutch her tired head to me and sniff her smelly ears.

I don't say, "I love you," because she's just a dog, and she doesn't know how scary the real world is.