Halfway There

April 2, 2014
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Wet muzzle of her nose pushed up my hand.
Black white fur silk to touch.
Her constant “pitter-patter.”
The weight of her small body.
The perfect recipe for disaster.
The treacherous journey took a century.
Bit my mother three times.
She squealed like a pig.
I was only in kindergarten.
Salmon colored substance constantly regurgitated.
I felt so bad for her.
The car stopped.
I looked out the window
We were only halfway there.

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