I often compare Nicholas Sparks’s ability to earn emotional impact to watching a blind puppy with cancer walking across the road and getting run over by a truck … so I decided to write my own blind-puppy-with-cancer story. Enjoy!
Marie pulled her low-cut, lavender tank over her head, slipped on her favorite tight jeans, then checked herself in the mirror. Her hair was perfect. She never wore makeup, except at her mother’s funeral. She’d wanted people to be able to trace the lines of the tears down her cheeks. From the chair in the living room, she snatched her leather Coach purse and stepped to the doorway, but from the corner, inside a tiny baby fence, came a weak bark from her eight-week old Bernese Mountain puppy named Buckles.
Marie turned from the door and stood over Buckles. He had water. He had food. In fact, he had plenty of food. He wasn’t eating. The vet said he didn’t have too long left to go, that his vision was basically null, and that she shouldn’t get too attached. She wasn’t wearing makeup that morning.
This was her first dog, and the little runt had cost her hundreds of dollars to get in the first place, and since, his vet fees, his destruction, and his incontinence had all but drained her account.
“What’s-a matter, Buckles?” she said, gently kicking the plastic fence that he rested his nose against.
The puppy snapped its head backwards and let out another string of weak barks, but settled back down in his original position, his wet nose pressed against the cage.
“I’ve never seen a puppy look so old,” she said, tempted to lean down and rub his head, but remembered what the vet had said. Don’t get attached.
She turned and stepped back to the door without looking back at the sick dog.
“Have a good day, Buckles. Hope you have fun.” She realized how cruel that statement was, with the little puppy, basically a baby, in pain, blind, unable to eat, and trapped in a little playpen, surrounded in his own filth.
Still, she stepped out the front door, locked it, and bounded down the stairs of her apartment.