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  • Grace Blaney


It was the drive to the vet’s office.

The buzzing of the lights above as I stepped

inside the room where I'd lose you.

The feeling of soft slick fur.

The look of fatigue and pain in your eyes.

It was like the dull tip of a pencil, finally flaking off.

Or the end of a road trip. Long and fulfilling,

yet disheartening and bittersweet.

The sound of sweet whistling, being interrupted

by a break in the melody.

Favorite CDs breaking. Burning bacon.

People would stare.

Stare at your decrepit walk, your gray fur,

and misty eyes. Wondering,

Why? Why put you through the torture.

The torture of struggling, living.



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