Is a Dog

by taylor phillips

It was raining. I always take the road that follows the river. There’s no traffic out there at night. The tarmac is worn patched and potholed. No one lives out by the river. There are no streetlights or reflectors on the road. Between the road and the river is a wall of high red oaks and bare maples and dogwoods. The oaks won’t lose their leaves yet. They linger on the branches until spring when the new buds push them off. The river is white through the trees where the rapids’ crests and the moonlight meets. The other side of the road is a blue collar sprawl of warehouses, tranny and brake repair, sawmills, machine shops, vacant industrial space with plywood windows, abandoned leftovers from the turn of the last century. There was a dog in the road, muscular and well fed. It stood with its shoulders board in the pride of youth. Its hair was trimmed close and golden brown on its back. The striations of its muscle shaded black in my headlights. The white chest held a defiant inhale. We made eye contact. The dog’s ears lowered. I swerve, the brakes lock, the rear wheels skid sideways and I can hear water displacing as I close my eyes and If I grip any tighter, I will tear the steering wheel from the column. A dull thud reverberates as the first wheel goes over and then the second; there’s no more control, all sound and light ceases at impact. I inhale gas and rubber and a warm, fresh smell. The car is still. I open my eyes. A fence post is buried in the radiator. I got out of the car and examined the dog. Its chest was torn and a sharp white rib twisted out. It pointed at me. The blood was black on the pavement, mixed with with fur and streaks of gasoline refracting a vivid spectrum in the moonlight. The dog was breathing. The dog was choking and coughing and spitting. We made eye contact. I took off my jacket and tied it around the rupture. I sat down in the blood and fur and gasoline. I held the jacket to the wound with gentle pressure. I don’t know why. The bleeding would not let up. I knew that. I put my palm on the dog’s head and stroked down its neck. The dog’s eyes are black and wet and bloodshot, full of every desirable human trait. There is ink in the pupils, creation and curiosity in dark places where light doesn’t touch. There is love. The dog loves me even as it bleeds and sputters. The dog licks my hand slowly.