Junkie Poo

This is from a letter written to my parents' dogs, originally published elsewhere, where the segment had been edited out.

It was back when you were young. I was waiting to get a ride to the train station. For once you weren't annoying me; you were just sitting quietly by my side. I knew something was wrong.

Your eyes were glazed over, heavy-lidded. You were swaying. It looked like you had been drinking.

My mom had her back turned to us, angrily rifling through the detritus of her purse when I said, "I think there's something wrong with the dog."

"There's nothing wrong," she snapped back, "he's just tired."

You were swaying even more and your head began to droop. You were definitely fucked up.

"No, really, something's wrong with the dog," I said, "just look."

And then we were speeding in the car. My mom was cursing and shooting fuming looks into the rearview mirror, making sure you were still alive. She was pissed, man.

Now at the train station, I got out and leaned in to say goodbye through the window.

"Maybe he ate something bad," I offered, "maybe something in the woods?"

My mom grabbed the back of the passenger seat and looked over her shoulder and frowned. She turned back around, gripped the steering wheel and looked straight ahead, glaring.

"He probably ate the poo of a junkie," she hissed, and took off, tires screeching.