The Accident

I got up this morning to go for a run. I've decided to save some gas money by hitting a little gym I like to call "The Streets" as opposed to the gym 15 minutes away from my house.

Plus, five miles in my neighborhood is much more enjoyable than being stuck on a treadmill, forced to hear Diane Sawyer and Robin Roberts talk about such pressing issues as, "What kind of fashion statement are those cult women really making? What do you think Chris Cuomo?"

15 minutes into my run, I slip on a pile of gravel. My knee was bleeding and my ankle hurt, but the Red Hot Chili Peppers were singing "Hump De Bump" in my iPod, so I kept going.

15 minutes later, a furry little white and gray dog across the street starts barking at me. I smile and keep going. The dog barks again, but this time the bark sounds different. Desperate. I turn around. The dog is running across the street toward me.

"Go back!" I yell.

The dog keeps coming. There is a squeak, but it's not tires, because the car never even hit the brakes. It just hit the dog, swerved and kept going. I saw everything. The impact. The flash of white and gray in the wheel well.

I think I screamed. Traffic stopped. I ripped my earbuds out and go to the dog. I want to take it out of the street. I can see a small butterfly pattern of blood staining the concrete near the dog's mouth.

Then a woman comes running out. She is screaming.
"Go back!" I yell.

But this time the car stops. She comes running to her dog and grabs handfuls of his fur.

"We have to get out of the street," I tell her.
"Oh my god, oh my god. I killed my dog. I killed her."
"It's okay. It's not your fault. Let's go."

I put my hands around her shoulders. The traffic is building.

"It's okay. It's not your fault."

She passes out. I put my hands under her arms and drag her to the sidewalk. She revives and sees her dog still in the street. She faints again. I lay her down and go pick up the dog. She's warm and her body is soft and limp. I can feel myself gagging.

The dog is in the grass now, next to the woman on the sidewalk. I think she is having a panic attack; she keeps passing out and waking up. Her husband is there and there are other people too. Someone called 911.
"Did she get hit?" they ask.
"No, her dog." I point to the small gray and white body in the grass. No one has seen the dog.

When the firemen arrive the woman is unconscious in her husbands arms. I say, "Is she going to be okay?"

Someone tells me yes and I walk off with the other women in the crowd.

I run the last mile home crying.

My ankle is swollen and on ice, it hurts so much I can barely walk. I have a huge bruise on my knee and I can't help but thinking I should have turned around when I fell.