Rose, the Mother, and the Leaf That Fell at the Blessing of the Animals

This piece follows Mishka, the Twenty-Year-Old Maltese Mix, and the Blessing of the Animals, which I submitted to the prior competition, Contest #339 in response to the prompt, “Write a story with the aim of making your reader cry.” The original story can be read here: https://reedsy.com/short-story/st0tuf/

***

I wee.

It happens while Rose is holding me. She lifts me higher and turns me away from the people behind us. Then we stand there quietly together.

“It’s okay, Mishka-girl,” she says.

Her voice is level. It is the only voice I know.

I press my nose into her neck. I breathe her in. I wait.

I am old. My legs shake even when I’m not moving. My eyes don’t land where I send them, and sometimes I forget what I was looking for halfway through. My mouth tastes bitter, like medicine.

Rose carries me now. I don’t choose where I go anymore, but I am close to her, and that is enough.

We are outside. I know because of the air.

It is cold, and the cold feels clean. Better than the apartment, which holds old warmth and dust. Out here, the ground smells busy; leaves crushed flat, dirt, salt, and the paths other dogs have taken before me.

The leaves scrape when the wind moves them. Cars breathe and hiss at the edge of things. I want to chase them, the way I once did, but my body does not answer that thought anymore.

I smell nervous dogs, excited dogs, young dogs pulling hard against their leashes, old dogs pretending not to care.

I like the young dogs. They make my tail think about moving.

Someone near us has brought a bird.

It is big. Bigger than me, with sharp claws. It sits inside a small metal cage and turns its head fast, one eye and then the other. It watches everything. It watches me.

My body tightens.

Rose’s hand comes down on my head. She holds me close.

I am safe.

Somewhere a child laughs too loudly, then laughs again. The sound stays with me. I like it.

We are in line.

We come here every year. Rose’s arms are tighter here, careful and braced. Her breath changes. I feel it through her and into my bones.

Dogs are everywhere.

Big dogs with heavy chests.

Small dogs that spin in circles.

Loud dogs who don’t apologize for the space they take. Their leashes pull forward like the world is something they expect to reach.

Their people say their names like the names matter.

Like the names are gifts.

I lift my head.

There is a puppy.

It is new.

It smells bright and busy.

It sits and forgets and sits again.

Its body is always ahead of its thoughts.

Its tail does not stop moving.

It looks at the day like it belongs to it.

I lean toward him. My tail tries to remember itself.

The puppy barks. Sharp. Happy. Unafraid.

I answer with my small bark. The quiet one.

Rose’s arm tightens around me.

I stop.

The puppy’s person laughs. The sound comes easily. Her hand settles on the puppy’s head without thought. The puppy leans into it, certain the hand will remain.

I watch Rose watch the person. Something in her moves forward, then pulls back quickly, like it touched something too hot.

I want to go to the puppy.

I want to smell its ears.

I want to remember how it feels to be near something that expects joy.

I want Rose to go to the woman.

I want her to say hello.

I want their hands to meet.

I want to see Rose smile again.

We move forward.

At the front is Father Big Smile. I know him. I have known him a long time. He smells like mints and candles. He bends when he speaks, even when he doesn’t have to, and his eyes find me first. I like him. He knows dogs.

Beside him stands a younger man in a collar. He holds himself very straight. His hands stay close to his body. His eyes move too much, looking for somewhere to settle and never quite finding it. I do not like him. He smells like cats.

Father Big Smile sees Rose.

“Great to see you,” he says.

Rose answers him with a small nod, her forehead creasing.

Father Big Smile looks at me. His eyes soften. He always looks like he has time for me.

Water flicks onto my ears. Cold. I flinch.

Words fall.

Gentle words. Familiar ones.

I don’t understand them, but I know the sound they make when they land.

Then a sentence that stays with me: “The family she has loved.”

I don’t know what family means.

I know hands. I know laps. I know treats.

I know a house that was once loud and is no longer is.

I remember a small person and a high voice that bent down to my level.

That person is gone.

I know Rose used to move differently.

Lighter.

I don’t know where that went.

Father Big Smile keeps smiling. The younger man does not.

He asks Rose to come back. To play games. I like games.

To be somewhere else with people and laughter.

I wish she would go.

I wish she would find her smile again.

Rose nods.

We step aside.

My body is ready to leave, to go back to our home. But Rose stops.

A little girl is kicking leaves.

She is not big, not small. Her jacket is a soft yellow, faded at the edges, like it has been worn and worn again. It hangs open even though the air is cool. She doesn’t seem to notice.

Her fluffy boots kick, stomp and jump. Leaves lift and scatter and fall again, brushing her socks, clinging where they land. She laughs when they don’t go where she expects. She sings while she does it. Not a song I know. Not really a song at all. Just sweet sound, rising and falling with her breath.

My tail moves.

The girl bends and scoops a handful of leaves, throws them up, watches them come down. Some fall fast. Some drift slowly, turning in the air as if they’re deciding where to land. She waits for them.

Rose's arms tighten around me. A leaf drifts down and lands on Rose’s shoulder.

It sticks there, caught in the fabric of her jacket.

It is not one color but many shades. Like nothing I have ever seen before.

Dark lines running through it,

pale edges thinning to yellow,

something green still holding at the center,

and a warm rust spreading where it has begun to change.

Rose does not notice.

Her eyes are fixed somewhere I can’t reach.

I see the leaf.

I reach for it with my mouth. It tastes dry and thin.

I pull it free carefully, holding it the way I once held things meant to be returned.

I lift my head toward Rose.

She looks down at me then. Just long enough.

She takes the leaf from my mouth and tosses it to the ground without looking at it.

It skids across the pavement and comes to rest near the curb.

Rose’s hand returns to my neck. She holds me closer.

I rest my head against her chest and watch the vibrant leaf lift again,

carried by the air,

rising past the church and out of sight.

The girl laughs louder, then quieter. She looks up, not at Rose, not at the people, but somewhere above the cars and the noise and the church. She too stills for a moment.

Then she smiles.

The air feels fuller. I wag harder than I have in years.

Rose stares. Frozen.

Someone speaks.

“Are you okay?”

It is the puppy’s person.

She is close now. Close enough that I can smell her soap. The puppy pulls toward me again, hopeful.

I pull toward him too. Toward warmth.

Rose leans forward.

Just a little.

Then she pulls back.

“I’m fine,” she says.

Her voice is steady. Finished. Tired.

We turn away.

I rest my head against her chest as she walks quickly to the car.

That is my work. To stay. To be here when nothing else is.

We go home.

***

I sleep.

The ground is soft. My legs do not shake. I run without stopping, faster than I ever have and nothing hurts.

Above me and all around me is color.

Red first. Deep and warm, like lying in the sun.

Orange, like the air near food.

Yellow, bright and clean.

Green, wide and cool.

Blue, soft and steady.

Purple at the edge, quiet and almost gone.

The colors stay where they are. They do not fall.

I run toward the color.

Then I wake.

The room is quiet.

Rose is standing over me. Her smell has changed. Sharp. Afraid.

She says my name.

I open my eyes.

The color fades.

I stay.