Category: Seti

Seti is drinking freshly prepared chicken broth. He is eating rice and chop biscuits, stewed chicken meat, skillet parsnips and poached eggs. After each meal, he lets me hoist him gently out the back door and rest him next to his favorite boxwood, to pee. When I return him to his bed, he proudly growls like a fiercely independent old man as I lay him atop his heap of blankets. He will sometimes leave his wicker bed in our bedroom and hobble into the living room to endure the loud music the guys are recording, or accompany me to smell the paint fumes in the room I am painting. We have a temporary bed at the ready in each room, and he treats each as his favorite, so long as we are nearby. Rebuilding leg bones, after all, is a family collaboration.

We spend a lot of time in and out of the house. The screen door flaps a lot during the day, the windows are always open, the gates rattle back and forth on their hinges.

Since our lot isn’t entirely fenced in, and since we live on a fairly busy road (with the school across the street and with Spring’s arrival and the landscaping trucks convoying in and out of the neighborhood’s enclave) I spend a ton of energy herding children and dog about the commons, keeping everyone away from the street.

Today, however, I was chatting it up in the backyard with Alis when we both tensed to the sound of screetching brakes and heard that most awful sound which sometimes follows: the loud THUD of a broken something. And as that awful sound echoed in my frozen moment, another sound reoriented me, which was the visceral, unmistakable yelping of our beloved dog, Seti.

It didn’t immediately register, the disgust I now feel at the person who accelerated and drove away down our road, leaving his or her immorality on the pavement. Initially, my brain took footnotes: Driver has continued driving down road. Sounds like a truck, possibly a white 4×4. I’ve seen a hundred of those today. Seti looks allright. His hindquarters, something is wrong with his hind legs, etc. But I’m sitting in my bed now, looking over at our lucky dog who escaped death once more (twice this year he has been hit by a car) and who is sleeping soundly through his trauma. I’m wondering how a person can be so selfish. What did they think I’d do? All I would have liked was an apology, an acknowledgement.
People can be so disappointing.

He is okay tonight, asleep in his cardboard box atop a discarded king-sized comforter. If I crouch beside him, his pupils function, taking in my expression and gestures. He sits motionless, licking his lips occasionally, his way of acknowledging my sympathy. And then he’ll lay his head back down. I run my hands along his back, searching for a growl or grimace, but nothing. Just a few cuts on his feet, black tiremarks on his beefy hindquarters, ten intact toes. A short, tucked-under tail. I worry about internal bleeding, embolism. But otherwise, I think he’s okay.

Mean, mean hit and run driver. Have fun with your bad karma.